Dramamine
by DaifukuBun
Summary: As if their relationship isn't unstable enough, Alfred and Arthur are struck by a terrible accident, leaving them both stranded in a snowy wasteland to fend for themselves. Help is nowhere to be seen, and the only thing they have to keep them going is each other.
1. Chapter 1

**Welcome.**

**Warning: Bullying, and a car crash.**

**NO**** major character death.**

**Enjoy.**

* * *

He slouches in his chair and pillows his cheek onto his shoulder for the thousandth time that day, blinking despondently and licking his chapped lips in an absent-minded manner. He's in the back of the classroom, which is fine by him, as he's not much into the constant, repetitive lull of mathematics.

His sky blue eyes watch their teacher write equation after equation onto the pristine white of the board, mapping out an intricate sum that he couldn't care less about. Those same sky blue eyes begin to fall behind his smudged lenses.

Then, they snap open again. No more falling asleep in class, he tells himself, thinking back to the recent ordeal in which he had water sprayed onto his neck by a snarling instructor.

Looking up at the board again reveals their teacher erasing the equation. He looks down at his paper, realizing that he hadn't copied any of that down.

Oh well.

* * *

Instead of slouching, Arthur weaves his fingers together and watches the other boy, who just so happens to look like a lazy sloth as his eyes flutter.

Arthur feels sorry for him, but he never bothers to make an effort for cases like him. Automatically, his hand works to jot down notes of their teacher's ramblings. He pauses and twiddles his mechanical pencil between his fingers, accidentally snapping it against the desk.

The boy of his interest, the bumbling foreigner, snaps awake as if someone had jolted him on the shoulder. His crystalline eyes fly to the board and to his paper, then, they darken as if they had lost hope.

This makes Arthur frown. He doesn't know the other boy's name yet, but he does know that he looks lonely, and scared. It interests him, even though just moments before he had said he couldn't care less about him.

It doesn't escape him, the way the boy's fingers often twitch, or the strange way in which his face twists into a nervous smile at the most inopportune of moments. His tan face, which isn't the most common thing considering their geographic location, is often filmed with an odd sheen of sweat, as if he doesn't feel quite right in his dark, modest uniform.

Arthur, as he writes equation after equation, thinks that the new boy is interesting, although he'll never tell a soul. He has a reputation to uphold, after all.

* * *

"Howdy." Alfred drawls in a boyish lilt, sounding as if he has never crossed the blurred line that is puberty. His thumbs are in his jeans, and his mouth is quirked up into a nervous smile. His back is slouched, as if he's once again sitting in math class, but Arthur can tell that instead of hopelessness, he feels uncomfortable. This same slouch causes a bit of what he thinks may be baby fat spill over the boy's faded denim jeans, creating a muffin-top that would normally be unattractive, but instead looks flattering on him.

"I'm Alfred." the new boy twangs. Arthur simpers. American, he had guessed, but with an odd sort of dialect.

The room is bathed in silence for a moment, before Alfred shuffles to a seat not in the back of the room, but the front. Their small class begins to chortle and murmur, before their instructor claps and shushes them.

Arthur keeps his smile, ignorant to the yammers of his fellow actors. Drama is his favorite class, by far, and a strange feeling wells up inside him, whispering that it just got even better.

* * *

A week later, Arthur thinks he sees something he shouldn't be seeing. His keys jingle and jostle as he turns the lock, testing the knob to be sure. After the student office is secure, he turns on his way, pocketing his insane amount of keys and striding down the dim hallway.

The only sound he hears is the clicking of his shoes against the tile, sharp, obvious, and clamoring. He adjusts his blazer and lets out a cool gust of air. One light flickers, and in his head, he complains about it. It's yellow and it's unappealing, dying the school an ugly, pissy color. This hue is only aided by the smell of body odor and perspiration, thanks to the surplus of teenagers meandering in its halls.

Speaking of sweaty teenagers, Arthur smiles once again at the thought of the way Alfred could lose his rickety accent for a monologue.

He exits the building, taking only a small second to get used to the brief chill. He and his pale complexion are accustomed to it. He treads around the corner, pocketing his bare hands and looking straight ahead of himself as if he's determined for something. However, in reality, he is merely lost in thought.

His smile falls away when he turns the corner, eyes falling upon a terrible sight, left foot stopping ahead of right, freezing him to that one spot. Arthur feels pain when his hand clenches into a fist around his keys, but it's a problem that's at the very, very back of his mind.

Arthur's tiny crush is ripped from his midsection and torn to shreds by the snarling words of his fellow overachievers, all in harsh stances with searing phrases, screaming yet silent at a poor, sniveling Alfred.

Arthur is disheartened, but he can only stand and watch, unconsciously zigzagging his pupils from bullies to victim, as if they were tennis balls. He swallows, and his bag falls from his left shoulder, plopping onto the pavement without a sound.

His comrades, all fluffed up with the badges of a great student, with keys like he had and with a positive reign over the student body, kicked, prodded, and jeered at the new kid with the crackling voice, the silly belt buckles, and the curling cowlick.

Arthur considers that he should do something. His heart begins to race, and he gets all choked up.

There's Alfred, the boy he admires from afar who he hasn't spoken a word to, then there's his friends, the ones he plans with and laughs with at that rectangular table in the office. They're the ones he always thinks of as decent, as on his level. The people he's proud to be around.

Yet here they are, the faces of their school, bruising the new kid for reasons Arthur can't even fathom. It makes him sick. His stomach turns, and when he sees a spurt of blood on Alfred's face, he makes his decision with solid haste.

His feet move of their own accord, and bravely he grabs one of the jeering boy's by the back of his collar. The boy notices far too quickly and turns, blinking when he sees Arthur.

At the look on the other boy's face, Arthur loses his resolve.

"Oi, Art!" the boy grins lazily.

Arthur gapes like a fish. From his peripheral vision, he sees Alfred begin to sit up, only to have his head bounce into the pavement once more thanks to the foot of a chubby student.

"... What's with the face? Mate, you look ridiculous." he says.

Arthur swallows and shuts his mouth. He feels his lip wobble in anxiousness, and his eyes flit to a bloodied Alfred.

"We're just teachin' this _queer_ a lesson, s'all. Wanna help?"

Instantly, his eyes jump back up.

"Ha?" he breathes articulately.

"Yeah, little prick just _came out _today." the bully sneers. "See?" he points to Alfred's bag, lying a distance away. Atop it is a keychain, and even from a distance Arthur can see that it's a rubber insignia of two symbols for the male gender, linked together at their loops. Slowly, Arthur turns back to the commotion, only to see that the student he'd been conversing with went back to holding Alfred down.

Alfred's glassy eyes glare up at him through his blood, with the most ferocity Arthur has ever seen. The American boy's hand clenches into a fist so strong that his nails are grated into the concrete.

Arthur wonders if people can even be so two-faced. His feet act on their own, sprinting away and leaving his bag behind, set on finding a teacher. Not only can they be two-faced, but they can also be stupid. The jeering face of his once-friend is burned into his head, and he grits his teeth, letting his feet carry him far away.

His ears pick up one last thing as he pulls open the door, descending into that piss-yellow light again. By the time the authorities arrive, the bullies are gone, and Alfred is trying to stand on his own. Arthur stares at him from the crowd, but Alfred can't stare back through his swollen eye.

Not only that domineering face, but also a pained whimper from Alfred will be forever burned into his skull.

* * *

Alfred plays his part with serene grace. Arthur crosses one leg over the other, awestruck as the boy with the gauze over his nose recites the words without a script.

Their teacher is fond of individuality, and as such she often makes her students recite their individual parts without the entire cast.

They're meant to performin a month at some extravagant theater in a watery city. Alfred, with his black eye and all, will play a rather comedic part, while Arthur is stuck being stoic and serious for the entire performance.

Neither of them are very happy with their parts, but as they're both massive theater dorks, they make do.

While Alfred is on their makeshift stage, reciting his part and mispronouncing words (although he's just using the American pronunciation), making the audience laugh, he meets Arthur's eye. Perhaps it's a coincidence, as the first thing they had learned about was to maintain eye contact during a speech, but Arthur still feels his insides ignite with a fluorescent, fuzzy light. He smiles shyly, and Alfred looks away as if Arthur doesn't exist at all.

Instantly, Arthur's smile breaks into a million miniscule pieces, and his eyes trace the stage to the ground. He feels unwelcome in his own skin.

* * *

After another week, Alfred is healing nicely. Many of his scrapes have faded, and he no longer has a bandage atop the bridge of his nose. His eye only stings a very slight lavender, and he still carries his keychain on his bag. It jingles with his step, swinging back and forth as he walks through the sea of mocking faces, all swimming in those piss yellow hallways.

It means more to him than they do.

He enters the domain of his favorite class and adjusts in his seat, feeling odd without a desk but happy with where he is. He's the first one there, and he easily claims one of the very front seats so that he can clearly see the twinkling lights glimmering like miniature suns. It's elaborate, the way they have such a setup every day, but it works for them and improves performance. When he's up there, he feels like he's actually on stage with a lively audience monitoring his every move. It's almost exhilarating, and it makes it so that for one single moment he can forget his inhibitions, and just be.

As the class pours in, no one sits with him, as per usual. It billows him with a flurry of negative feelings, as he was well-liked back in the states. That is, until he hopped out of his very own metaphorical closet, and since then the world has clearly stated its opinion by repeatedly punching him in the gut.

He shifts in his seat. Maybe it's better this way. In no way does he fit in, what with his silly accent and tan skin.

The tiny crowd settles as their teacher smiles, and behind her control panel she dims the lights. It's a big assignment, to recite one's own lines on a small stage, and therefore their grades are being rewarded heavily.

Alfred's eyes alight when he sees the boy who always smiles at him climb onto the stage. He sits up a bit, trying to act as though he's not interested but failing miserably.

He had learned his name during one of the many school assemblies. Alfred had wanted to throw his shoe at that ragtag hateful group of student council, expressing unspoken lies about how great they were, but he had lost some of his anger when Arthur had spoken as well.

Alfred thinks that Arthur is the one that ran for a teacher instead of helping out his friends, and at this thought a little shimmer of hope awakens itself inside his chest. Maybe he's not so alone.

Steadily, as the minutes fly by, this same shimmer grows and glows. Arthur has a silvery voice that slithers through words like a trickling stream. His words themselves aren't all that breathtaking, but his voice, dressed in that colorful accent, makes Alfred want to melt.

But he knows that he shouldn't have thoughts like that, because while Alfred is reasonably sure that Arthur helped him that day, the fact remains that he still stays around the same group of neanderthals. He reasons that it's Arthur's duty, but he still can't help disliking it.

Still, as Arthur talks on stage, Alfred can't help but smile at him. He's so small that he doesn't fit the part in the slightest. The green-eyed boy has such a serious look on his face, as he always does, but Alfred feels that it's magnified by the way he furrows his eyebrows or walks about the stage. His green irises, like the beam of a lighthouse, rove across the auditorium. They travel horizontally, taking in all the smiling, or perhaps frowning faces, before falling on Alfred, who is beaming at him.

Arthur startles and tumbles over his lines, a red flush climbing across his cheeks like tendrils of ivy. His eyes zigzag from Alfred's smile to the now worried faces of the rest of his audience. He stops talking, and just sort of stares at everything in front of him.

Clearing his throat, he ignores its clogging and the fluttering in his stomach, instead choosing to act like Alfred isn't even there. He continues his lines in a rushed voice, walking despondently to keep himself focused.

Finally, once he's finished, he bows and begins to jog off the stage. He fails this task, however, when he trips over a wayward wire and falls flat onto his face.

He hears Alfred laughing in the crowd, but something inside him can tell that it's not a mocking gesture.

* * *

Alfred discovers something secret about Arthur two days later.

It happens when he's sprinting away from yet another group of rude monkeys who exist merely to make fun of something as insignificant as his sexuality, as if it affects them in the slightest. He bolts into his sanctuary, the theater, before realizing that if he's there he has nowhere to run but into a backstage room.

So he does, hastily and without grace. He stumbles over his feet, creating a clamor that is fed by the rain pounding on the roof. The door forces open at his hand the same time a roar of thunder cries out, rolling into the school and making a wave.

His eyes widen at the sight before him, and he blinks, momentarily forgetting his terror.

Arthur is sat in a simple wooden chair, knitting. From the window, a bolt of lightning alights his wide-eyed face.

They're both quiet for a moment, with stupefied expressions upon their faces, before Alfred snickers. Arthur raises his defenses, tensing his shoulders and opening his mouth, before their little rendezvous is interrupted.

"Get back here, Jones!" calls an obnoxious voice.

Alfred quickly shuts the door behind him and backs against it, breathing a sigh of relief. After a series of deep breaths, he smiles wanly at Arthur, who is too flustered to offer a grin in return.

They both panic when the door knob begins to jiggle wildly. Alfred tenses, and as if the reaction was second nature he forces his back against the door again.

"T-there's a lock." Arthur stammers, setting down his project as if it's his precious child. Alfred fumbles nervously, his breathing labored as his hands dance around the lock shakily. Before he can have a meltdown, Arthur is in front of him, twisting the lock.

They both watch it wiggle uselessly for a short while, before the sound of retreating footsteps echoes through their skulls. Arthur breathes out a sigh of relief at the same time as Alfred, and when they look at each other they realize just how close they are.

Alfred is backed against the door with his hand braced near its knob, while Arthur is a less than a foot away with his hand in almost the same spot. They both blink, and as Alfred stares at Arthur through his glasses, he realizes that not only is the other boy shorter than him, but that his peridot eyes, when poised up into Alfred's own, are feathered with stunning dashes of sunlight when the sun isn't even there.

He swallows his thoughts when Arthur jumps away from him, clearing his throat and smoothing imaginary dust particles off his blazer.

Alfred stares at him with his lips slightly parted before shaking his head.

"So." he says with a shrug and a masquerading smile. "Knitting."

Arthur sputters and tries to create a scapegoat for himself. "I hardly think that's important right now!" he folds his arms and closes his eyes, wincing for the mocking that is sure to come. There's nothing, though, only quiet, so after a while he feels ridiculous and opens his eyes, freeing his muscles from their tense position.

Only to find that Alfred is staring at his eyebrows.

He furrows them, and blows a warm breath from his nose, as if he is an angry bull.

"What's important then?" Alfred blurts quickly, bumbling for his own excuse.

Arthur clenches his jaw, but he calms his anger almost instantly. He wonders if it's polite to just go out and say it, but since Alfred is asking, he tells himself that there is no other option than to answer.

"The fact that you can't go anywhere in this school without someone wanting to kill you." he says breezily, and feels a little bad when Alfred blinks and looks taken aback.

"Oh. Huh." Alfred says, and he's sad that the happy feeling he'd been getting was lost. He was glad to be finally talking to Arthur. Little does he know, the feeling is mutual.

"... Yes." Arthur says slowly. "Why?" he asks, even though he knows the answer. The sneaky little demon inside him wants to confirm it.

Yet, Arthur doesn't realize the strain this puts on Alfred. The boy bites his lip and contemplates leaving the room, but he knows that his worst nightmare is outside. Or, perhaps, as he panics at Arthur's inquiring gaze, his worst nightmare is the lesser of two evils.

He looks away, and in his too warm uniform he feels his skin heat and grow moist. How he misses the dry climate of home.

Arthur grows tense when Alfred doesn't respond. He frowns and scolds himself, because he knows better than to ask invasive questions.

He reaches the conclusion that his need to know more about Alfred is a little obsessive.

"I... you must know, I'm only concerned." he murmurs. "It is my job to... be... concerned." he finishes lamely. Alfred quirks an eyebrow at him.

"You can tell me. I won't hate you." Arthur says.

_I already like you too much for that to ever happen, yet I hardly know you. Why is that?_

Arthur glances back at his project and swallows. He hears Alfred shuffle on his feet.

"I-uh..." the taller boy blurts. "I... was sort of expecting it to be more accepting here, that's all."

Arthur wonders if it would be acceptable to change the subject. He feels bad enough already. And it's true, he thinks, that by all rights and reasons Alfred is correct. It just so happens that he got unlucky.

"Accepting of?" he prods reluctantly.

"Of the fact that I'm gay."

"Ohh." Arthur tries to look oblivious.

There's a bit of quiet.

"Oh? That's it?" Alfred almost snaps. He's had enough people pester him today.

Arthur looks at him and shrugs. He finds himself wanting to say, me too, but he knows that he can't have that fact spreading like a rumor.

A heavy feeling worms its way into his chest, settling there and making its home. He wants to confide in Alfred, but he knows that he'll never be able to.

With a sad smile, he watches Alfred fiddle with his uniform tie before grinning a bit in obvious relief. The boy asks him about his knitting, and Arthur admits that he makes every costume for the plays every year.

Alfred is secretly amazed.

* * *

There's a week left until they're set to perform in some rainy town, and a slight panic has overtaken the drama department. Not only are they rushing to get everything done, but they're also quite worried about one factor in particular. The weather.

It's unusual to get as much snowfall as they're getting. The dapples of frozen water fall from the sky in a myriad of murky grays and pristine whites, aligning the always moist streets with a layer of harsh ice and powder.

The teacher informs them that all will go as planned, and that they will grit through the drive if it's still wintry. This lifts Alfred's spirit, and drags Arthur's down.

Arthur sits alone in his knitting room, making a thick, downy skirt. He can't help but have a bad feeling, about what, he doesn't know.

* * *

They're math partners.

Their teacher decides to be generous and allows his students help from each other, and, knowing that Alfred wouldn't be very lucky, Arthur smiles at the silly boy from across the room. Alfred smiles back, and when they sit next to each other, they garner a ridiculous amount of stares.

Arthur ignores it, and after Alfred notices this, so does he.

When Alfred reaches for his pencil, Arthur reaches for his own, and the tips of their fingers brush. It's like the feeling of a feather gliding across skin, and Alfred has the thundering realization that he really wants to hold Arthur's hand.

He doesn't, of course, but when their fingers dart away, he feels Arthur scoot just a bit closer. It makes him smile and flush, and it's an almost giddy feeling, one he doesn't know if he should get used to.

* * *

Arthur is quiet, but Alfred is fine with the fact that he can just be around someone without feeling a hateful aura. They've been talking for a few days, and steadily, they've grown a remarkably easy friendship.

They're painting an amateur landscape on a large canvas for a backdrop, and as they had both volunteered to stay after class, they're alone. Together. Neither of them can express how nervous or excited they are.

Arthur paints a stripe of green grass, and Alfred works on filling in the dark green of a mystical tree. He has to climb a red, stained ladder to reach the top, and even then he has to stay on his toes. One winding strip of teal later, he moves his elbow in just the wrong way to knock over a bucket of paint.

Arthur is suddenly interrupted from his ogling of the way Alfred's shirt rides up his stomach when he stretches by a heavy can hitting him, followed by a splash of lime green, melting coldly into his front. He blinks.

"Aw, shit." Alfred says, jumping down from the ladder, and Arthur is shocked because he's never heard that adorable bumpkin accent swear before. Alfred bolts to get a rag, and when he comes back Arthur has to breathe deeply because suddenly those hands are all over him.

A calloused hand grabs his shoulder and holds him still, while another hand wipes at his chest and stomach.

Arthur is disturbed by his sudden desire to grab Alfred and do the same to him. He looks away from guilty eyes that rove over him in concentration, but when the dry part of the cloth runs up his neck, he flushes darkly, furrows his eyebrows, and looks up at Alfred from behind his lashes. His lips crinkle, and his entire body quivers in nervousness.

They're alone. His heart starts to thrum.

"Shit, shit shit..." Alfred mutters stupidly. "Sorry."

"It's fine." Arthur says in an even tone, and at the sound of his voice Alfred blinks and pauses.

Swallowing and feeling vibrations flow through his veins, Arthur gathers his will and grabs Alfred's hand, fisted around a filthy cloth. He hears Alfred's breath hitch, and he simpers, suddenly feeling bashful. Arthur guides Alfred's hand forward, before gushing the cloth onto the boy's own cheek.

Alfred's face is stained a grimy green, and after a while, he smiles a strained smile, too. Arthur doesn't let go of his hand.

"There. Now you're covered, too." Arthur says quietly.

Alfred's heart is beating wildly, and he bites his lip, feeling the back of his neck tingle. He takes in the sight before him, of Arthur soaked in paint that matches his eyes, smudged across his form in an oddly flattering way. His eyes are peeping through blanketing eyelashes, looking like green little moons. Arthur, too, is biting his lip, and he's got a dusty flush powdering the apples of his cheeks. It's the first time Alfred sees him so close and really, _really _looks at him, and what he sees is the reason why he does what he does next.

Alfred drops the cloth but keeps Arthur's hand, entwining his fingers over Arthur's slender ones, before leaning down with slow precision to kiss him softly on his lips. Arthur's eyes close before he gets there, and Alfred smiles a shy smile. He stays still against him, not daring to make it anything but chaste, and so does Arthur, yet Alfred is reassured when he squeezes his hand. They're gentle and pliant with each other, and when he feels Arthur ghost his fingers across his knuckles, his chest squeezes, too.

Arthur is about to wrap him in his arms right when the theater door creaks open, sending an echoing screech throughout the entire building. Or perhaps it's just their hearts.

They dart away from each other, but it's too late, and they're stuck staring into the shocked face of their teacher. She smiles falsely and licks her lips nervously, before clasping her hands.

"Oh... sorry." she says. Her fingers twiddle. "Sorry, sorry." she murmurs as she leaves the room.

Alfred and Arthur stand in a puddle of paint, glancing at each other sidelong.

Arthur gives Alfred a pained look, and is about to apologize to him, before their teacher arrives again. The opening door scares them both, and when she beckons Arthur over, they simultaneously feel chills dance down their spines, like a flurry of nasty bugs swarming around and around. Arthur looks at Alfred one last time, biting his lip, before obediently following after.

He wants to vomit, but not because of the kiss.

* * *

Arthur talks in a sore voice now that the event has passed.

He can only cringe at the fact that everyone walks on eggshells around him. He feels like a sick child that they placed into a plastic bubble, as not only do they still torment Alfred, they also treat him like a disease that spreads into Arthur. It's truly strange how their luck seems to have twisted and constricted into something as vile as this, a thread so ugly and snarled.

The teacher had said nothing, but unbeknownst to them there had been students backstage, watching their display in awe and disgust. She had actually been saving them from further embarrassment.

Blue eyes are watched like a hawk as Arthur tends to him. He wants to make sure the boy doesn't fall asleep on him, that's all. Besides, the only reason he's worrying is because of the sprouting bump lying under his dusty fringe. He dabs at the poor boy's scratches with a wet cloth, pursing his lips all the while.

Arthur had sneaked him in, as he's always the first one to be home anyhow. Alfred sits on his bed like he doesn't belong, and, really, he doesn't. Arthur is standing in front of him bustling like a mother hen, worrying because the poor boy was beaten in the schoolyard once again.

Alfred smiles a grim smile up at Arthur's fussy face, and all he gets in return is a moody huff. A particularly ornery wound is prodded at, and he loses his smile.

"Never can catch a break, can you." Arthur murmurs. Alfred looks up at him again just in time to see a flash of vulnerability flit across his features. He has to blink to confirm that he saw it.

Slowly, Alfred shakes his head and looks away, not sure what to say. He hears a small puff of breath leave the other boy, and it's then that he realizes that this is the first thing Arthur has said to him since before they kissed.

Before he can become lost in thought, he feels Arthur's lithe fingers cover his hand like a shield. He looks up again, wincing because the action stings his wounds, but keeps contact with Arthur's eyes all the same.

"I'm sorry." Arthur says in a near whisper, and while Alfred wonders what he's apologizing for, he doesn't ask about it. All he does is part his lips and look at the other boy in wonder.

Arthur sighs and gazes down at him. He doesn't want the inevitable to happen, but he knows that it will. How cruel he knows he can be, and how twisted the world is. It won't give him a choice in the matter.

He has to break Alfred's heart, because he knows that he can't save both him and his own status. Arthur takes a moment to reconsider, before he succumbs to the fact that he has always been a remarkably selfish person.

So like a soothing breeze, he traces the pads of his fingers up the wounded boy's arm, across his shoulder and to his neck, comforting him there because he wants to act as a painkiller. He sees a quaint little smile cross the boy's mouth like a wave, and he knows that he has succeeded in fooling him.

But not all of it is a trick. He would like to be with Alfred, to climb out of his shell and learn more about him, to bandage his scrapes and give him a kiss every day. It would be lovely, but as usual, he's not used to beauty, and instead chooses efficiency and precision.

Arthur takes in a shuddering breath before ghosting the palms of his hands onto Alfred's cheeks. He lets his thumb trace the skin where tears would be if they were falling, and he composes himself.

Arthur refuses to look at what he knows is there, at Alfred's sweet, giddy smile, and as if it's automatic, he leans down and covers the boy's lips with his own, like he's protecting something precious.

Alfred perks up instantly and ambles upward, like he's terribly eager for any contact whatsoever. He makes Arthur stumble a bit from his enthusiasm, as despite his wounds he straightens and wraps Arthur in his arms, something he didn't have the opportunity to do on the stage. He tilts his head to the side and so does Arthur, and he's blown away at the feeling of hands gliding down his throat to hold him steady by the hood of his jacket.

They whisper nonsense words into each other, one pushing when another submits, going back and forth as if it's a fight for control. Alfred's neck is pushed back as Arthur delves into him, sitting astride his thighs so that he's comfortable, fully aware of the position's implications. His toes curl, still confined within his shoes, and he's surprised when Alfred pushes him to do the same, to bend backwards so that the other can feel satisfied.

With his gentle yet chiding hands somewhere on Arthur's back, Alfred begins to feel a little self-conscious, because the pale boy is so thin and lithe, while he himself is nothing like that. Sure, he's not so pudgy that he's ripping his clothes at the seams, but he does wish that he could slim down a bit. As he rakes his fingers down the smaller boy's spine, and as his heart swims in his chest thanks to the feeling of Arthur sliding up his thighs, he finds that this difference gives him the urge to envelope the boy completely, to protect his little frame like their lives depend on it.

But he can't do that, because Arthur is determined to lead the kiss, while Alfred absorbs it like it's a gift. He lets him toy with his lips even though he doesn't think himself the most attractive person in the world, and he allows Arthur's hands to wander, from his shoulders to his back to his chest, splaying out and grabbing his clothes. It makes him breathe a little harder than usual, because he can hardly fathom the concept that someone might find him attractive at all, much less enough to kiss with so much fervor.

There is the sudden fear in his heart that maybe Arthur doesn't think him handsome at all, but he lets it go soon after, telling himself not to worry.

Arthur breathes in sharply and holds him close for a moment, like he's taking a last breath of fresh air. His lips part, and he licks the delicate skin of Alfred's lips, getting close enough so that they're flush, and it's a sudden, daring gesture, before he pulls away from him and glances at the tiny thread of saliva connecting their swollen lips. It breaks, and after a brief hesitation that involves staring at Alfred's blissful face, he stands and puts himself in order, clearing his throat.

Alfred is left breathless. He sits stationary in his spot, and his tongue, achingly tentative, flicks out to lick where Arthur's was just seconds ago, trying to get a taste of him but not quite succeeding. His eyes flutter open, and he looks up at Arthur, who is twiddling his hands and looking away from him with cheeks red like a rose. The flush spreads to his neck and his ears as he feels Alfred's eyes on him, and when Alfred gets the sudden thought that he wants to kiss and lick those reddened places, he, too, looks away, feeling too naughty for his own good.

Gaining back his clarity, Alfred stands suddenly, feeling weird because he's a bit taller than Arthur. Arthur seems to shrink when he stands, looking protective of himself. Alfred wonders why, but he doesn't question it, instead choosing to be overzealous as always.

"Can we be boyfriends now?" Alfred clamors, standing at full height over him. He looks kind of stupid, with his bruised and cut face, and his red cheeks. Arthur thinks he looks like a kid begging for something, as his eyes, luckily untouched, are wide, glassy, and hopeful. His lips are stretched into a smile, and when Arthur sees that smile he actually steps back in trepidation.

Alfred's excitement falters when he sees Arthur's expression, and after minutes of staring, he loses his smile altogether.

"... Arthur?"

Arthur blinks, as if freed from a trance. His mouth flounders, opening and closing in bewilderment, before he looks at Alfred's nose instead of his eyes. Anything but his baby blue eyes.

Yet he still can't say it. He can't stomp on that hopeful question, nor can he hurt Alfred anymore than he already has.

Arthur swallows his pride and kisses him again, with so much enthusiasm that he falls atop Alfred, and they bounce onto his bed and get lost in each other until the brink of evening.

* * *

Alfred is excited for every single day of school.

He considers it a miracle how, much like wind to a crawling fog, the feeling he got when he sneaked out of Arthur's window completely cleansed him of any dread. This scenario is playing in his head again and again, and he's proud of it, because at that time he felt like one of those real teenage princes you see in the movies.

His head is propped onto his pillow, ruffling his dusty blond hair. Slowly, he slides down, until he's merely sprawled across his mattress, looking at the ceiling and reading into its nonsense pictures.

He's not sure how he did it, but he did. In a fit of adrenaline he had climbed down the siding of Arthur's house from the second floor. Alfred reasons that it can't have been easy, as the pads of his fingers are sore and telling a tale of blisters, but he still can't fathom how on Earth he managed it.

That's hardly the point, he knows. He turns from his ceiling and instead looks at his stark blue wall, squinting his eyes just because he feels like it.

The feeling that squeezed his heart when he was finally stepping foot into the grass, with the tips of his fingers still splayed across beige siding, staring up at the worried face that was poking out its window to make sure he didn't fall, is healing all of his bruises. And it's true, he thinks, he can't even feel them anymore. It's like a sugar rush, magnified by the way his stomach upturns with every passing second. He recalls clearly the concern in Arthur's eyes, and the way from below Alfred could see his mussed hair jumping in the careful breeze. The height of his feet seemingly taking flight from the ground, the orange light of that evening sky, how shockingly soft Arthur's sandy hair had been when carded and tangled in his fingers, all of it, had been exhilarating. All they had done was kiss, but Alfred is sure that that's enough for now, perhaps even more than necessary.

Alfred tosses and turns, abandoning his wall in favor of his carpet. He's giddy and his skin seems to warm, and even though he folds his arms and hides his face in embarrassment, he knows that that little worm of a thought that just made itself clear is true.

He misses Arthur already.

* * *

"Did it hurt?" Alfred whispers.

Arthur gasps and throws his project into the air, knocking his knees together and making the simple wooden chair creak. He blinks wide eyes and finally notices the American's impish face peering through the door, decorated with a keen smile. Arthur sighs and picks up his project from the ground, setting it in his lap and gracing the other boy with a toxic expression.

"What?"

"Did it hurt, when you fell from heaven?"

Arthur groans and throws a stray ball of thread at the boy, who guffaws as he enters the room. Alfred kicks the yarn back to him as he approaches, stepping loudly onto the wood.

"Shouldn't you be doing your work?" Arthur asks, as a sort of shield for himself. Alfred blinks and pauses.

"Nope. Already got my lines down, and I painted that weird wall._ So_, I thought I'd come see you!"

The American continues on his path, halting in front of Arthur and his little chair. They share a profound staring contest for a moment, in which Arthur looks angry with everything and Alfred looks like a dunce, before Alfred smooths his hands onto Arthur's bony shoulders and gets close to his face.

"Where's my welcome?" he teases.

Arthur narrows his eyes and flares out his nostrils, only slightly put off because Alfred has a stray eyelash on his cheek. His hand moves of its own accord to brush it away, and apparently Alfred mistakes this for a caress because soon the back of Arthur's head is gently resting on the back of his chair. He feels his eyes flutter closed, and his fingers twitch in nervousness at the now familiar feeling of Alfred's lips.

Luckily, the American boy pulls away before it can turn into that of the previous day.

Arthur huffs and goes back to work, choosing to ignore Alfred's presence for the most part. Little does he know, Alfred is watching his every little movement with excited intent.

To him, it's the greatest thing, to simply stand and watch his boyfriend. _Boyfriend_. Alfred smiles and giggles a bit, to which Arthur looks up and arches an eyebrow.

Alfred shrugs and sits on the floor with a plop, scooting back so that he's propped up against Arthur's legs.

"You're really good at that." Alfred says. Arthur blinks twice, before flushing and darting his eyes away from the boy's springy cowlick. He's not sure if he's talking about kissing or making costumes, but he's flattered either way.

"Thank you." he mutters, and when he looks back he finds Alfred twiddling with his phone. So, with a pent up sigh, he gets back to work.

Arthur lets Alfred do whatever he wants, because he must hurry to finish every last costume piece before the big event.

Which, coincidentally, happens to be tomorrow.

* * *

It feels like they're in an airport, waiting for the plane to take off. Arthur curses the smell of gasoline and shivers in his thin blazer, stuck frigid in the back where the heat does not reach. Alfred had insisted they sit in the back because, "That's where all the cool people sit, and we're totally cool."

So far, they're the only two in the back, and while Alfred is painfully optimistic, Arthur wants to sprint forward and roll around in front of the heater.

The windows are white with frost, traced with ice veins that look like lightning. Snow falls in enormous flakes, dancing and rocking in the air before joining the crowd on the ground. Arthur rests his forehead against that frozen window, apathetic because hey, he's already freezing, why not ease his headache, too? Alfred is warm next to him, in his thick leather jacket, and of course Arthur is envious. However, he is also too ill to care.

Arthur is, of course, one to have a migraine on a very important day. Alfred is completely oblivious, with his big smile and wide eyes, bouncing his leg and humming some tune. It almost infuriates Arthur, how he can be so desperately happy, but he leaves him alone, knowing that the poor boy needs the optimism.

A gaggle of girls sits in front of them, but otherwise, they're alone in the back of the bus. The radio starts up, and after twenty minutes of role call, they're off into the winter storm.

Alfred's excitement subdues as the tires bounce atop ice chunks, and as the bus is painfully slow for safety measures, soon half the students are lulled to sleep. Arthur notices Alfred's eyelids drooping, tired and drowsy somehow in the frigid air. The boy is resting against the back of their seat, and finally, he succumbs to slumber, letting his body hide his blue eyes.

Arthur watches him, without anything better to do. He puffs out his cheeks and slowly releases air, staring ahead at the wipers going mad on the windshield. Couldn't they have postponed the performance?

The bus turns, and Alfred's head slides down until Arthur has a nice mop of sunny hair tickling his neck. He stiffens, and automatically, his eyes dart this way and that, checking that no one is looking at them. When he finds that everyone is either asleep or chatting animatedly amongst themselves, he can breathe a little easier. Arthur huffs and lets his eyes search out the window, watching as they leave civilization. Where in the hell is this old theater, anyhow? He loses the distraction and turns his head to the side, letting the corner of his mouth touch that soft hair. Perhaps he can indulge, just a little.

His eyes trace the throes of students. It's safe to, right?

Yes, right.

Arthur quells his fears and allows an idle hand to wrap around the boy's waist. He rests his head fully atop Alfred's, suddenly feeling at peace and not ill at all. His eyelashes brush his cheeks when he, too, shuts his eyes.

No one is watching, he tells himself. Everything's okay, no one is paying attention. A little rebellious devil on his shoulder hisses that it doesn't matter, he can snuggle up to his beau in public if he wants to, but Arthur quickly and metaphorically flicks it away.

It does matter what they think. It means the world to him. But they can't see him anyway, so it's okay.

Arthur feels rather than sees Alfred's eyes flutter open, and only a second after they do, the boy snickers and nuzzles into his neck. Green eyes open again, and Arthur purses his lips in embarrassment. It's achingly adorable, how he can feel the tip of a cold nose breathe out warm air into his neck, how that soft, soft hair tickles him relentlessly.

"You're so cute." Alfred whispers. Arthur's skin warms, and he sniffs like its a scoff. Alfred is the cute one, not him.

Even so, he doesn't reply. He only watches sidelong as Alfred clasps his hands in his lap and turns so that their knees are brushing.

Arthur gazes out the window, seeing the appearance of trees, capped with snow and decay. He takes in how impossible it seems for them to have so much snowfall. It hasn't happened like this in years. The bus ascends a hill, and to Arthur it feels as though the higher they go, the more gusts fly through the bus, and the colder it gets. Now he's grateful that Alfred is so warm. Arthur, even though his head is pounding and his stomach is in knots, allows himself a gentle, wan smile.

It's silent between them, and after a few minutes Arthur is sure that Alfred has fallen asleep again.

He wonders what he'd do if someone were to look in their direction. Would he push Alfred away? Or would anything happen at all? It makes him bite his lip, but he still can't let the boy go.

Arthur startles when Alfred's head lifts from its makeshift pillow. His big blue eye rove around the bus for a moment, like he's curiously watching his surroundings, before he simpers to himself and fixes his glasses.

"Cold, huh." Alfred says.

"Yes." Arthur murmurs. The arm he has around Alfred tightens, and he sighs quietly. "Very."

Alfred stares at him a moment, before straightening himself out and sitting on the edge of the seat. Arthur whips his arm back into his lap and flushes, narrowing his eyes and looking away. He hears Alfred chuckle lightly, before he blinks at the warmth of something on his shoulders.

"There ya go."

The smaller boy looks down to see the brown leather of Alfred's jacket, warm like a portable heater thanks to the fluff inside. He stares at it for a while, before worming his arms through the sleeves and feeling small. Only the tips of his fingers emerge from its sleeves, and if he were standing, it would surely reach down to his thighs. It's so comfortable, though. It embarrasses him, but he doesn't want to take it off. He smiles to himself when he thinks that maybe this heavenly jacket is the source of Alfred's endless happiness.

Arthur looks up again, and although his smile melts a bit, it's still there.

"Thank you." he says.

Alfred smiles and winks. "Don't mention it." he leans in for a kiss, and Arthur panics. His eyes widen as they stare into Alfred's half-lidded ones, and although he can feel his heart palpitating and his hands getting clammy, he's helpless to those wonderful lips on his. Arthur is nearly hysterical in his head, and rightfully so, because soon after their lips meet a deafening voice winds itself into his ear.

"So you two _are _together!"

Arthur makes a strange squeaking sound and pushes Alfred away with his sleeve-covered hands. He covers his mouth and his head instantly darts this way and that, and finally after a bit of panic, his eyes fall upon the gaggle of girls in front of them.

One of them is looking over the back of her seat, and she has a bright smile on her face that's complimented with her olive skin and lime-like eyes. Her hands are clasping the top of the seat, and as she grins at them excitedly, her cinnamon hair seems to bounce.

Arthur's breath is hissing in the back of his throat, making a strained _hhhhh _sound that translates directly into _oh, fuck_. His eyes are wide and his mouth is poised into a false, tight smile. He looks ridiculous, but of course, he can't see himself, so he thinks it's a perfect mask.

"I knew it!" she exclaims in a charming accent. "Good thing, too, you're really _so _cute-"

Her excitable little speech garners some attention, and much of the bus begins to look back their way. Some are smiling gently, while others are frowning. The worst of all, though, is the myriad of mocking smirks.

"Yeah." Alfred says softly from beside him.

"No!" Arthur finds himself blurting, and he realizes that it's probably the loudest thing he's said in front of his peers, ever. The girl blinks and loses some of her smile. "No, we're not." he concludes lamely.

She furrows her eyebrows and tilts her head to the side in an estranged frown. Her eyes move between them, and then, a sorrowful shadow encompasses her face. She looks apologetic, but she says nothing.

"No?" comes the breathless whisper from beside him. Arthur flinches, and he knows that he should have seen it coming. Suddenly he feels like the worst person in the world, in a too-big jacket that doesn't belong to him, one he certainly does not have the right to wear. With painful slowness, he turns to look at Alfred.

The American boy looks vaguely pissed off, but for the most part he merely appears as though he's just been punched in the gut. "What do you mean, no?"

"I-I mean..." Arthur stutters, and he feels two inches tall. There Alfred is, with such an uncharacteristically upset look on his face that it makes his head swim. While at the same time, he can feel the stares from elsewhere, burning like lasers into his skin. He chokes on his words and swallows them like rocks down his throat, and he feels himself begin to sweat with a surplus of conflicting emotions. What does one do in that kind of situation? "I mean..." he breathes, looking down at his lap.

There's an aching silence, pulsing like a migraine throughout everything.

Arthur blinks when there's a resounding laugh from somewhere up front. It's small at first, but then it grows and thrives, like a raging storm.

"Lookit that! The little poof's crying!" cries a voice from somewhere. Arthur's eyes dart up to see that the worst has indeed occurred. Alfred is wiping at his misty eyes with the whites of his sleeves, giving the fabric transparent blotches of saltwater. His glasses are foggy and pushed aside by his fist, and as if things could get any worse, his lip begins to wobble.

The laughter is uproarious, and it grates on Arthur's nerves like no other. He grits his teeth and tries not to cry himself. His hand extends to fuss over Alfred, but it's instantly slapped away.

Arthur blinks despondently at the forming red spot on his wrist.

"Stop it!" cries the girl in front of them, the one who started the whole mess. She turns, and her hair whips behind her when she does. "What are you all, seven years old? Grow the fuck up!"

To aid in the chaos, the bus swerves over a sheet of ice. Some fall from their seats and crash onto their elbows and asses in the aisle, while others cling to the seats. Their teacher yells at them to quiet down, and Arthur feels like hyperventilating.

He doesn't have the chance to, though.

The insane force of natural calamity halts everyone's chortles, as directly after that first minor swerve, they veer out of control. The back seems to lose itself before the front, as it swings like a flail, forcing Alfred to crush Arthur against the window. They all simultaneously gasp, and they can almost hear the whine of slick ice, tricking the tires and sending them another way. Some scream, while others, petrified, stay grimly silent. Brakes screech, but they cease to work, and before anyone can blink the jarring impact of the fence silences everything.

It's like nothing, harmless and defenseless against the weight of the bus. It gives way instantly, and although it delivers a startling shake, it's useless. The brakes are stuck, for reasons no one can fathom.

The screaming starts up again, and Arthur feels Alfred cling to him despite everything that just happened. They seem to vibrate with the corner of the cliff, dragging against the floor with aching slowness. Some scramble for the back, sprinting from their seats and turning desperate eyes to the emergency exit. They wish to descend into the storm, as anything is better than the fall ahead of them. Most of them slide down the slope, pulled to the front by gravity.

As Arthur hears the painful thud of someone hitting the windshield, his own eyes turn wide toward the exit. They're the closest of all. They could, easily, get out. He and Alfred, they could survive.

And leave everyone else in the cold.

The slope is only getting steeper, slimming their chances. His eyes move up to Alfred's weeping, terrified face, and he makes up his mind.

Arthur is not about to die as the useless boy who does nothing but stomp on hearts.

Gently, he pushes the boy away and twists his body about the back of the seat in front of them, bracing on his elbows. He can do this. He huffs and puffs, mortified by the way his feet want to dangle beneath the seat. He can do it, he will do it.

Alfred bolts. Arthur gasps as he observes him fighting his tears, hopping over their seat and making the bus scrape. Alfred doesn't look back, and suddenly Arthur realizes that the boy intends to leave him behind. With a growl, he grabs him by the back of his uniform sweater and drags him closer, before Arthur himself climbs atop their seat.

His fingers blister as they cling to the walls and windows, the stepping stones to the exit. Arthur's mere actions beckon Alfred to follow, as he, too, realizes that simply running up the slope is futile. Every step they take seems to jar them, seems to bring forth the agonizing scrape of icy stone to metal.

Arthur grasps the latch and trusts that Alfred will follow, because he knows that he can't grab his hand with his hold on the back window.

With a solid pull, it unravels like a loose knot, and the door flies uselessly away with the wind. He feels like he's on a sinking ship, and the water pressure has finally delved into them, suffocating them. The snow blinds him as it siphons the heat outward into pure abyss. His shoes whine and slip down the slope, and they make the final drop. The screams are deafening, but soon they're gone as he's thrust out into the cold, seeming to float in midair for a single second.

Yet, that heavenly second is over far too quickly. He hears Alfred yelp as he, too, exits the doomed vehicle, and its the last thing he truly witnesses before he is swallowed, and before he drowns in pure white.

It's too late for the road. He falls alongside the bus, his back his only cushion for the impact.

Recognizing that he's about to end, his eyes leak icicle tears that look like glass beads in the air. His heart has stopped early, and a strange thought enters his mind that he can't feel his body. He is numb, soaring through the air. Arthur's fingers act as nets for snowfall, and his eyes take in the last drop of sun, concealed by clouds.

A blinding pain on his hip and a finalizing crash to the back of his skull are the last things he feels before white, completely spontaneous, skips gray and cuts straight to black.

* * *

**I relate to Arthur deeply in this one. uwu**

**Alright. So. If you're familiar with me, you're probably wondering where the heck I've been. Well.**

**I.**

**I have literally no excuse but for the fact that I've been working on this. Which, by the way, is actually at like 20,000 words right now. It was going to be another oneshot, but last time I put a 40,000 word one on the table, people didn't like the length. So this one's split up a bit. This chapter is barely even an introduction.**

**As soon as I'm done with this (which will be reasonably soon), I'll be going back to LT. My precious baby.**

**There should only be two chapters. :)**

**Until next time.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Welcome.**

* * *

The first obstacle Alfred is faced with is the bitter cold, seeming to slice through his skin and burn his eyes until they're frozen red. He can feel it reverberating through his bones, almost like a constant, aching vibration that makes itself known even before his initial impact.

He expects to land on the cold hard ground and feel nothing afterward, but, luckily, that does not happen.

Flailing flurries of snow race past as his fall seems to catch wind, becoming incredibly fast, before a smarting pain makes itself known and travels from his toes to his forehead. It's like an earthquake, but it's short-lived, as instinct takes over and his arms scramble to grip whatever his body just collided with. He holds it like he intends to crush it in his grip, and after he succeeds, the rest of his body is left to swing listlessly in the white-tainted air.

His eyes are glued shut, but after a while that seems longer than it really is, they pinch and pry open. They're met with the graying, frosty trunk of a tree, and that tree is his favorite tree, because he's quite certain that it just saved his life. His shoulders ache at the backwards position, but it's to be expected that adrenaline will shine through every ounce of pain.

Alfred looks down to find that he has no idea how high he is. The snow, the stupid, stupid snow, is making it so that every direction is painted a grimy white. Alfred is, frankly, lucky that he can discern right from left. Thoughts fill his head, wondering if his grip on the tree it pointless. If he lets go, will he just fall to his death anyhow? He looks down, and up, trying to gauge the distance of his fall. His body is trembling, but in a flow of determination he chooses not to acknowledge it. The only thing he thinks of it is that he wished he had his jacket, and with that comes the wondering of where, exactly, Arthur is.

But that doesn't matter. His sweater will suffice for a short while, but his position, hanging off a burly branch, will not.

Then, the devil speaks, and his arms begins to slip. His breathing quickens and he scrambles to tighten his hold, to stay in the air for just a bit longer, think about the life he's lived, but it's all for naught. His very panic to keep hold vanquishes him, as his wiggling creates a slick pathway for his arms, and his weight wins out with the added stress. Within seconds, he's falling again, and all thought is lost.

When he lands on the snowy ground only seconds later, he coughs out rather than breathes a sigh of relief.

* * *

Alfred begins to wander around after lying uselessly on the ground for twenty minutes, contemplating everything that just happened. He comes to terms with it, and although he doesn't like it, he exists within it.

So he glares at everything as his feet slosh snow with every step. His arms are folded and he tries to stay confined within his beige sweater, but of course it doesn't work very well.

A stray thought occurs to him that he should be looking for Arthur, but right when it strolls into his mind he spits it from his mouth. And he does spit, only to become frustrated when, on the snow, it scatters pink with blood. Did he hit his head, too? Is his mouth bleeding?

He only recalls breaking the fall with his leg, which, coincidentally, is beginning to ache. At least he's not limping yet, he reasons, and he also realizes that that's thanks to the cold. Probably. Cold's supposed to slow stuff, right?

Ugh.

Stupid, unimportant things enter his mind as he tries to weave around the crowd of trees. Darkly, he realizes that, the further he walks, the further he's getting from Arthur and the bus. It almost makes him stop in his tracks. With absolutely no idea as to what's ahead of him, his pace slows, and with his arms folded to ward off the chill, he digs his nails into the weaved yarn like claws.

He doubts that anyone survived the actual crash.

Guilt grabs him by the hair and tells him to turn around, but oh, no. Squinting without his glasses, as they had flown off in the fall, he has the morbid thought that they got their comeuppance.

But then, Arthur. He could have made it. There are enough trees around that, surely, he could have done the same thing as Alfred, right? … Does Alfred care? Oh, of course he does. He tries to be cool and stoic by saying to himself that he doesn't, but somewhere inside him, somewhere that isn't as deep as one might think, he knows that he does, in fact, care. He cares a whole lot, actually, about that stupid boy who is just like everyone else. The idiotic guy with the huge eyebrows who likes to knit, who also has Alfred's favorite jacket.

He stops walking. That jacket would be really useful right now, actually.

However, soon the image of himself walking back, to find Arthur still and frigid in the snow, and to just... take it off him.

Oh...

Alfred runs a hand through his now powdered hair, and again he tries to cope with the situation he's in. His throat barks something between a cough and a sigh, and he turns on his heel. He doesn't want to, but he does. He goes back. Yet he feels something, and he can't be sure what, digging into his back.

Little does he know that it's hope, beckoning him nearer. Unlike Arthur, he thinks with a sneer, Alfred has always been remarkably selfless. He unknowingly turns away from hope and retraces his footprints, already rounding out from the heavy snowfall.

The thought of finding Arthur like that makes him sick. Alfred wasn't so strong that he could just turn around and kill any feelings he has for the boy with fire, and he reasons that if he were simply at home and something like this happened, he'd be in the bit more of a tizzy than he is. That said, he has bigger things to worry about. But he also has time to think. In fact, he has to think, to keep his mind off the frozen air.

Less than a week, it had been, that he had _thought _he had something. Pathetically short, now that he thinks about it, but as he's incredibly inexperienced it had meant a whole lot to him.

In useless anger, he kicks the snow as he walks. He longs for his jacket in the urge he feels to pocket his hands, and if he longs for his jacket, that means he must also long for a certain English dickhead. Again, he spits pink into the snow.

He walks for a long time, stepping into his weaving footsteps. Alfred wishes for leaves in the trees, so that they would whistle and he wouldn't be stuck in complete silence. His eyes concentrate on the pattern his shoe bottom printed into the snow, and his voice, distracted and bored, awakens the tiniest bit to hum a raspy, nonsense tune.

After eons of this, he finally stops at his starting point. He can't say he's surprised, but he can't say he isn't disappointed, either. There's nothing here. At least, nothing more than there was half a mile ago.

His feet refuse to move, and he just stands. He stands, he stands, and he stands. Then he sits. He lands on his ass in pure frustration, curling himself into a ball. He wants to scream, because it's so cold, and there's nothing but snow and trees.

So he does.

He lets out a boom that's more like a growl than anything, but it's a scream to him, and it takes the wind out of him and makes his head spin. It echoes, which doesn't surprise him but makes him bark out a laugh sarcastically, and another, until he's got his head in his hands and he's laughing so hard about how ridiculous it is that he survived. How ironic, too. Nearly everyone in that bus was dead set on making his life hell, and here he is, the triumphant one.

But if Arthur hadn't stopped him from running like an idiot, he'd be with them right now. With a pang, he realizes that, both technically and probably, Arthur saved his life.

So, where is he right now? He wonders this, and still the smaller boy's reverberating _no _is pounding in his skull.

Alfred's feet awaken beneath him again, and he stands. He clears his throat, trying to recover his voice after his recent yell. Breathing deeply, he rubs his hands together, huffing on them in cloudy puffs. It's quiet. If he broadcasts himself loudly enough, someone will hear him, surely. If there is a someone.

His hands encircle his mouth in a cylindrical fashion, like a megaphone, and he takes a deep breath, before releasing a lot of pent up energy into his shouts.

"_Someone_!" he shrieks, and the only answer he gets is silence. He pauses and moves his hands away, before steeling himself and continuing. "_Heeeeyyy_!"

Nothing but trees and snow. He clenches his jaw, and his shoulders go rigid.

"_Arthur_?!" he screams, and still nothing. "_Arthur, you fucking jackass, if you're dead I'll kill you_!" Oh, hell, his leg is really starting to sting.

And then he hears it. He wants to both scoff at it and run to it, but surely, it's there, he can't be dreaming. A choked noise, like a whimper, to his left, or to his right? He can't be sure, but he chooses left.

He hobbles over, now conscious, thanks to his standing still, of just how much his leg hurts. The snow and the absence of his glasses gives him poor eyesight, but he squints into the endless white, pausing in his walk to try and see something, anything but trees and snow.

A small sob alerts him of just how close he is.

Looking down to shield his face from the coming wind, his eyes trace the snow as he limps in the direction of such a hopeful sound. He watches his feet sink into the ground, and he's distracted by his own actions. That is, until instead of himself they fall upon what looks like a red, bursting flower to him. However, as he does have an ounce of common sense within him, and as he's not completely blind, he realizes that what it is signifies a worst case scenario.

Yet he's to the point of considering it tedious. So, instead of worrying, Alfred simply follows the voice because he has to. It hiccups and echoes into the silence, so much so that he wonders how he hadn't heard it before.

The end of his mental trail is a tree. However, there is something special about this tree, much like the one that saved his life.

He looks down past the bridge of his nose at his prized jacket, draped over thin, shaking shoulders that he's honestly not very surprised to see. What he is surprised at, and a little concerned over, is the tiny trail of blood and sagging footprints leading to Arthur, who is shivering pathetically against the trunk of the ancient tree. As if he can shiver, what with that jacket...

Alfred tries to kneel down, but it's difficult because of his leg, so instead he awkwardly falls into a sitting position.

"Hi." he says casually, so nonchalant and sarcastic that, in a weird way, it's like an accusation.

Arthur tenses, and his tremors seem to cease. He freezes in his huddled position, but doesn't look up. Alfred eyes the jacket, and not only does he yearn for it, but it also makes him feel pretty stupid. What was he thinking, going and giving it to Arthur?

After a short while, Arthur moves to look at him, and his slowness puts Alfred on edge. His pallid face emerges from the cozy black fluff of Alfred's jacket, and a tiny, red cut on the apple of his cheek makes his face look ridiculously pale. It's a contrast, and the chill doesn't help.

Alfred tries to manage his best unimpressed look, but it's interrupted when Arthur's head lolls downward and he begins to shake again. It's at that point that Alfred gets a little creeped out, and he hasn't a clue what to do about it.

"I think... I think I hit a tree..." Arthur's voice rings out suddenly, yet it's slow.

Alfred blinks. Well, no shit.

"Did you?"

"Yes. I... I think, um."

Alfred chews on his cheek. Arthur can't think straight.

"Is that your blood?" Alfred asks, gesturing to the tiny trail even though Arthur can't see it. After what looks like a stretch of intense concentration, Arthur sniffles.

"Yes. I heard you yell and... woke up, had a wonderful dream, but... then I just... I crawled here and waited. For you, that is." he attempts to explain. Alfred arches an eyebrow.

"So... are you bleeding?"

"Why, yes, and it's quite the stubborn little wound... thing. Thingy." he trails off.

Alfred gives him a calculating look, and his mouth bends into a lopsided frown.

"Ah-huh. Where ya bleeding from?"

Arthur seems to focus, then, and his fearful, red-rimmed eyes are wide like a doe's. He looks like he did on the stage, peeking up at Alfred through his lashes, and Alfred has to summon a series of negative emotions not to tumble over and hug the boy's face. Arthur's pupils are weirdly big, and the usual green of his eyes looks like a mere ring around the black masses.

Then, even though they're so wide, they shut tight. He begins to tremble, and Alfred watches as he moves his hand at his side. Alfred's jacket wriggles across the smaller boy's shoulders, and that same hand that was gripping his skin moved, emerging from the fabric and revealing a bright painting of red across his palm.

"I-it's my side, and... everything hurts. A branch? But it managed to cut through all the layers, except your jacket, so... I've got no idea."

Alfred watches, his expression dim as Arthur crunches snow between his hands and it crumbles pink back where it came from. He washes his blood away with the excess water, and it leaves a pink little pile on top of the stubborn white landscape.

It hits him, then, that if Arthur can't move, what will they do? … Or will Alfred simply go on his own?

He huddles into his sweater and rests the side of his head against the frosty tree trunk. His eyes shut as he tries to ignore the bitter cold, but he can't, what with Arthur's audible suffering.

No, he can't leave him. He's not heartless.

"Alfred?"

Alfred's eyes open reluctantly, and he winces against the snow again. At least, he reasons, the tree's trunk is shielding them some. Arthur, too, is squinting, and he seems to have moved a bit.

Then, his bony white hands disappear into the jacket again. Alfred expects him to bundle up, but instead, he blinks at the leather as it begins to expand away from him. Arthur uses a shaky hand to hold the jacket, and he extends his arm to Alfred.

"You- you look cold." he stammers. Alfred blinks, and out of surprise he actually moves away from the jacket a bit. "I got some blood on it, I'm sorry." Arthur murmurs.

Alfred's eyes seem to quiver in confusion, before they look down at the jacket. There is, indeed, a patch of the fluff inside that's darker than the rest. If he looks closely, he can see a rustic purple, but that's unimportant as he gingerly grabs the jacket and puts it on.

The warmth that envelopes him is heavenly, and almost immediately he burrows his cold-reddened face into the fluffy collar. It feels like the sunset has manifested itself into a reachable object and embraced him, complete with all those warm colors, swimming through his chest. He sighs, but this time he doesn't watch the white cloud it creates fade into the air.

No, instead, his eyes peek up to see the snow again. Rather, the snow that blocks his view of the other boy, who is slumped over and shivering wildly. Then Alfred realizes that if he himself looks cold, then Arthur must be freezing. His mind skips directly over the warm, sticky patch left on the inside of his jacket, and instead it connects that warmth to the pulsating rose of reddish purple on the side of Arthur's blue blazer.

The other boy's eyes are tiny green slivers and his cheeks are rosy landmarks. Alfred frowns in an odd mixture of pity and sympathy as he watches Arthur suffer, and with a gruff decision, he scoots forward even with his bummed leg. Snow melts into his patterned pants, but that's the least of his worries.

Arthur looks up at his advance but is both interrupted and surprised when he's suddenly pounced by a bumbling heat source. He chokes on his breath and stumbles with his agonizing wound, as the cut moves every second he does, but he's glad for the new warmth anyhow. Alfred presses him in by the blades of his back, and he's instantly stuck to the sun that is Alfred.

"If I'm cold, then that means you're freezing, man."

Arthur feels rather than hears the words rumble the boy's chest, and he smiles a bitter smile. Alfred is probably right, but Arthur feels bad enough already. Alfred tries to use his arms and hands to cover the defenseless span of Arthur's back, but it's of no use, so he's stuck simply holding him.

And with dying anger, he feels the boy's uneven breaths fill the expanse between them. He feels how warm Arthur is, yet how cold, and with acrimonious light he thinks to himself that Arthur can't be heartless, either.

* * *

Alfred is surprised that Arthur is the one who suggests they get going. He puts the fact that neither of them know where to go in the back of his mind. It's logical that they stay near the wreckage, but neither of them know where the wreckage even is. So their next option is to find it, which is also something neither of them want to do.

"... You sure?" Alfred asks after a moment.

Arthur nods a grim nod into the other boy's chest. "As romantic as this is, I... I don't fancy dying in your arms."

The reaction is immediate, and Alfred snorts out a laugh. That is, before he digests the cold hard truth that they could, in fact, die.

"Me neither." he says. "I was just thinking, you probably can't move very well."

"Yes, that's true." Arthur says, and he seems to flinch at something only he can feel. "But I'm not about to let you leave me here."

And right after he says it, Alfred braces an arm on the trunk of the tree. Arthur bites his lip as even that single departure leaves him chilled to the bone. The American boy stands slowly, and Arthur is left curled on the snowy ground. He's still feeling like shit, but he knows that just sitting in the snow won't do him any good.

"Is it bad?" Alfred asks, and Arthur looks up to find him gesturing to the cut on Arthur's side. Arthur looks down at it, too, and just the sight of the drenched, torn fabric makes him want to barf.

"It hurts like it is... but... I, I'm not dead." he looks up with a fiery little smile, and Alfred has no idea how someone can be so frumpy and determined, all at the same time.

"Well, I got a limp. So we're gonna be looking pretty sorry."

"Did you hit a tree too?"

"Yep."

"Hm." Arthur hums as he tries to stand. He freezes with his knees bent, and Alfred starts to wonder if they're really going to make it. His hand moves to help Arthur, but before he makes it the other boy glares up at him and stands fully. He keeps a stained hand at his side, but otherwise, he looks angry rather than injured.

Arthur's glare moves from Alfred to the snow, before he stumbles on a wayward path. Alfred wonders what on Earth that had been about.

* * *

They walk for what seems to them like an incredible amount of time, creating another path that goes the opposite direction of Alfred's footprints. Admittedly, they're not very smart, as they could be preserving warmth by staying huddled together, not to mention that they both need the support.

Sadly, they both value stubbornness over survival. Or at least, it seems that way.

As Alfred walks, he leaves one normal footprint, and another lagging, clustering one. It worries him, and slowly the cold makes him ache, rather than numb.

After many long minutes of this pain, Arthur sees something. He stops in his tracks, staring ahead at a darkened mass in the endless expanse of white. His hair hops in the weak wind, and he attempts to stand as straight as he can despite his pain, in a desperate effort to make his sight reach far ahead. The crunches of snow under Alfred's feet cease, and Arthur feels his warmth close as he pauses as well.

"What is it?" he hears him rasp out. They're both feeling breathless, and Arthur feels like his lungs are burning with fiery ice.

Arthur doesn't answer him. He only keeps walking, if not faster than before. Alfred struggles to keep up and wonders where Arthur got all his solid determination.

They breathe in the deathly air and mark the snow as they go. When their eyes fall upon the damaged hue of the bus, exploding in color between all the heartless white, they're both deafened with dread and blinded with hope.

However, the most staggering feat they come across at that moment, is the comforting heat coming from the crippled bus. Even from their distance, they can feel it, and if Arthur squints his eyes he can see tiny sparks shooting off like sparklers and fireflies. They're feet away, and they can feel the heat, bending the air and melting the snow, they can feel it flying into them. It's captivating, and it's needed, but it's terrible.

Their feet stop when they finally arrive, and they spend a ridiculous amount of time simply looking at the atrocity. Of course, they see the acceptable part, they see the shell. They're lucky that they don't see the inside. They count themselves spared that they can only see glimpses through broken windows.

The front is flattened, and it's bonded with the ground like a raindrop frozen in time. Metal is twisted and mangled, burned, worn. Glass is littered everywhere, and still, all the while, it's roaring in flames.

Arthur and Alfred stand near the fire, but they do so with great guilt, the greatest guilt that only comes with staring death right in the face.

It's at the end of it all, in the smashed debris, that they both shy away, they pretend it's not there, and they shield themselves from tell-tale splotches of red. Something like this, neither of them thought they'd ever see.

And here they stand, triumphant.

They stare at the fire, and still, snow flies into them and musses their hair. Alfred gathers the will to sit, and soon after, so does Arthur.

"There'll be someone to rescue us." Alfred says suddenly. His voice is too loud for the somber moment.

Arthur acquiesces with a nod.

"I mean, they gotta notice the broken fence up there, right?"

"Yes."

"Yeah, and it's kind of scary that a bus full of teenagers went missing. They'll come."

"How will they find us?"

And then Alfred falls silent. He's so caught up over finding the bus, that he's forgotten the cliff. In the winding sea of trees and flurries, it would be tedious to find, especially considering their conditions. His neck cranes as he looks up. The branches, in their mangled dance of tendrils, act as a barrier to the ground. They, their wounds, and the bus know this all too well.

Not only that, but it's far too hard to navigate in the snow. Arthur and Alfred are incredibly lucky to have found the bus.

So, that would mean, before help, it would need to stop snowing.

Alfred looks down again, and his eyes rest on Arthur's footprint, which is already being covered in snow. He blinks as its blurry pattern is covered in fresh snow. Fresh, stubborn snow, that will more likely than not keep falling.

"It's never been this bad." Arthur says. Alfred looks up at him, only to see the English boy staring at him like he's reading his mind. "It's unnatural." he murmurs.

"Huh?"

"This snow. It's ridiculous."

Alfred just looks at him. Arthur licks his cold, dry lips and stares into the fire. It occurs to him that the fire of a crashed automobile may be dangerous, but he's too cold to care.

"It makes me feel like it's meant to happen. Like I... or, we, I suppose, like we're meant to be here. And it frightens me."

"The snow does that?"

"Mhm."

"It's just snow."

"It's evil snow."

They look at each other, then, and Alfred puffs out his cheeks.

"Well, if we're meant to be _here_," Alfred starts. "we're not in _there_," he points to the bus. "and I think that's all that matters."

Arthur blinks, and he frowns.

"That's one way to look at it, I guess."

"You gotta look on the bright side." Alfred says matter-of-factly, before looking back at the fire.

* * *

When night arrives, the falling snow radiates an enigmatic glow. Every flake has a ring about it, a ring of gold from the fire. They look like falling embers, which, Alfred thinks, is actually kind of ironic. Of course, they only appear this way because he cannot see very well, and the light of the fire is simply reflecting off their surface. He curses his bad eyesight as he tries to ignore the nagging cold, even with the fire nearby.

He feels surreal, looking up at the blurry, black sky. Not only that, but he feels like some dorky sap in a romance movie.

The buried teenage heartthrob within him, from before he crossed the Atlantic, is just dying to burst out of his skin and make himself known. But instead, he keeps himself as solitary as he can, because he knows he's not as good-looking as he was back then.

Alfred feels rather comfortable, if he can in his situation. He's lying with his hands behind his head and his elbows bent, blinking listlessly at the moon. The snow has lessened so that they're not constantly being buried, but it's still there, and it's almost gentle. It melts into tiny droplets before it becomes a bother. His pillow is his jacket, sprawled out on the snow with the fluff open to both of them. Yes, both of them. He's sharing his jacket with Arthur, who is perhaps just a touch more determined to be alone than him.

All Alfred can see is his narrow back and the mess that is his hair. The tips of his fingers are poking over the general area of his nasty cut, but otherwise, he's completely silent, and it feels as if he's not taking up any space at all.

Until he moves. It's a tiny shift, and it ruffles the jacket a bit, but otherwise he stays still. In the deafening silence, broken only by the cackling fire, he can hear him breathing. It's a small, shuffling sound that alerts him to his pain and makes him feel guilty for things that obviously aren't his fault. Stupid trees, he thinks, but then he remembers that the trees saved their lives.

Still, he can't imagine how it must have felt to be clawed at by a branch, and for it to actually break skin. His mind cuts to splinters, and he quickly cringes and steers his train of thought a different direction.

Arthur moves again, and Alfred glances his way. His eyes fall upon the round of his shoulder, trembling with cold and maybe something else. Alfred purses his lips and looks away from the pathetic display.

He doesn't want to fall to his weakness and hold Arthur close again.

"This is how it is, usually." Arthur mumbles. Alfred startles. "The snow is usually like this."

A small, melted flake glistens his nose with cold, and he looks up again at the falling golden flakes. He doesn't say anything, and after a long expanse of quiet he has to wonder if Arthur has fallen asleep yet. His own eyes try to fall shut, but it's so hard, it's so cold. He folds his arms around himself and curls his body, like he's trying to become a ball. Thoughts tumble about, of course, so it's expected that in the dark he'd just think.

He's lucky it was so abrupt. Otherwise, he'd be holding him, right now. He's lucky that he found out the original situation right before something worse happened, so that now, he doesn't have to deal with the brute force of it. The nightly cold burrows holes into his skin, and he squeezes his eyes shut. He waits for sleep, but it doesn't come. Alfred can feel the lull of it, though, just on the other side of the crystalline air. It's present and it's heavenly, but it's lifeless, and he knows he can't reach it. So he lies there, with his eyes pinched shut, looking like he just sucked on a sour lemon.

"Alfred?"

Alfred's eyes pop open. "What?"

Arthur is looking over his shoulder at him, craning his neck uncomfortably. His eyes are dark green blades of grass that are framed with an ominous red, and Alfred thinks that either he's just that tired, or he's been crying.

"If you're cold, you can hug me." he says quietly, with something dancing in his eyes. The way he says _if_, though, gives Alfred the hint that Arthur wants to be held.

Well.

Alfred is not about to let that same silvery voice that cuts into him so coldly beckon him near. He flicks his head away from Arthur's gaze, and the second he does it he feels like a small child, upset over something petty.

There's a small stretch of silence between them.

They're freezing in a remote, barren forest, of course they should preserve warmth. Slowly, his eyes trace back over to Arthur, but Alfred is at a loss when Arthur is already done looking at him. His eyes find the raised skin on the back of Arthur's neck, grown into gooseflesh as the cold digs into him, too.

Alfred swallows and breathes deeply.

He nudges forward on his elbow, crunching the snow beneath them, before he drapes a tired arm over Arthur. Alfred is sure to steer clear of Arthur's side, but he can still conveniently grab him and press his nose into the damp cloth of his blazer. Arthur stiffens but he doesn't otherwise react, so Alfred contents in holding him with both arms and nuzzling into his back. He sighs, and he relishes in any heat that Arthur's thin body can offer. His legs bend so that they brush the back of Arthur's, and suddenly sleep is within distance, suddenly Alfred can let go of many fears.

Sleep will wait a while, though. It waits for Arthur to calm himself and for Alfred to warm.

Arthur delights in the brush of a cheek on his back, or the tip of a cold nose poking the back of his neck. He revels in the arms wrapped around him, and he grows with Alfred's warmth, pressed all along his back. Acting on instinct, he takes one of Alfred's hands in his own. He smiles meekly at the crown of trees imposing in front of them, and how tiny they seem in comparison. So tiny, but bundling up so many feelings. So many, many feelings, bursting and making him lose himself.

Arthur feels abnormal with Alfred's acceptance of his offer. Abnormal, but good, great. He feels great, with his lovely boy wrapped around him so tenderly. With that soft hair tickling his neck, despite it being damp and cold. With the brush of his eyelashes behind missing glasses. It's all so heart-fluttering.

Yet, his smile sours. It's been such a short while that they've known each other. Why is that?

Arthur doesn't question it for long. The hand trapped within his twitches, and without a thought Arthur entwines their fingers. Why, when it's only been such a short while, is he so enamored?

Alfred blushes into Arthur's spine. His faces pulls something akin to a grimace, but he doesn't call Arthur out on his actions, no matter how much he wants to. He's cold, that's all. He's cold. Arthur should turn around and hug him back, he's so cold.

But, no, that would imply something, wouldn't it? Not only that, but it would put all of his weight onto his bleeding side... Alfred settles into his rampant thoughts and messes his hair on the fluff of his jacket.

"You hate me, don't you." Arthur murmurs, and it snaps Alfred out of his thoughts. He blinks and only flinches slightly when Arthur's grip tightens so much it's almost painful.

"Uh..."

"You may." the other blond says crisply. "Hate me, that is. I deserve it."

Alfred stares at a tiny snowflake on his jacket.

"But I..." Arthur starts, then trails off. He hates himself sometimes, too. For all his faux-bravery, he is such a coward. Such a lying coward.

"You what?"

Arthur flinches and his hair stands on end more than it already has. Alfred's tone is too cold for his liking. That little country accent of his is never supposed to be cold... and then he realizes just how shallow he's being. He does know that not everything can go his way.

"I'm sorry." he settles on, but he knows that he's truly not. Rather, he simply cannot say aloud what he is really thinking. It's impossible to put into words this recurring problem he has, the way he shuts people out when, in reality, they mean the world to him. This problem is like a constant flaw he can never shed. Arthur can never, really and truly, grow close to people. He may act like he can, but he can't.

And no one understands it.

"See, now..." Alfred unwinds himself from Arthur, but he still stays close. "An apology is not what I'm looking for. I'd like an explanation."

Meanwhile, Arthur is within his own mind, sorting himself out. He hardly feels it when Alfred discards his hand. What he really feels, is his own shell of a personality that he enslaves and drives around. He can feel that part of him, scrambling for some kind of an explanation that doesn't involve ratting itself out.

"Don't got one?" Alfred says.

"They were all watching." Arthur murmurs into the cold. "I can't have them seeing us. They'd do to me what they do to you."

Suddenly, Arthur wants to crawl into a hole and die. That's just about the cruelest thing he could have possibly said.

"So you're ashamed of me." Alfred says in the form of a statement.

"No." Arthur replies, and it's so even and fierce that Alfred suddenly feels like he's the one in the wrong.

"Don't you dare think so lowly of me." Arthur spits out. He garners the strength to squirm onto his back, minding the thunderous pain, just so he can look Alfred dead in the eye. "_You're_ not an issue. I'm the one that's got to stand up for myself, alright? It's not that _you_ did anything, it's because of me."

"You're selfish."

"I wouldn't call it that."

"What would you call it?"

"I like to save my own arse."

"So you're selfish."

"If I was so selfish, I'd have skipped away in your jacket."

They glare at each other, Alfred's eyes an icy, blue fire, while Arthur's are steaming pots of acid. Yet they both know they're in the wrong, and that arguing is getting them nowhere. They should sleep while the fire is alive.

However, neither of them can. Arthur knows that he is, in fact, a little selfish, and that he should stop defending his grasped straws. While Alfred knows that he needs to smother his hurt and just try to understand Arthur, maybe a tiny bit.

The fact stands, though, that they're both stubborn idiots.

They look away from each other with a simultaneous jolt, and almost immediately after Arthur lets out a pained breath because damn his head really hurts. It's a pulsing feeling that leaves him worrying, as if something isn't right in the worst of ways. Just how hard had he hit his head?

"Are you still bleeding?" Alfred asks, grudgingly quiet.

Arthur is glad to say that, as far as he knows, he isn't. Rather, his clothing hasn't been stained for the past few hours. Now it's but a stinging lash on his side, and more than anything it's inconvenient, like an oversized papercut. What he really worries about is his head.

"I don't think so." he offers. His tone is lighter than Alfred's, as he's had practice composing himself.

For a short while, they hear nothing but the flames cackling midair. It doesn't last long.

"Does it hurt?" Arthur hears him mumble.

"... Yes."

Alfred makes a tiny whining sound, and Arthur feels the jacket shuffling as he nuzzles into it.

"M'sorry." Alfred mumbles, muffled by warm fluff. Arthur huffs.

"What are you sorry for?"

The only sound is their breathing, and the imaginary lilt of melting snow.

"I don't know. I jus' feel like I need to say sorry."

"Those had better not be your last meaningful words to me." Arthur comments. His implications seem to do a flying leap over Alfred's oblivious head.

"... Huh?"

Arthur doesn't say anything.

"You uh..." Alfred continues. "You got your reasons." he sighs, before adding a mumbled: "I guess."

Arthur has the heart to look at him again. He keeps his eyebrows drawn downward to outsmart his headache, but he keeps his resolve anyhow.

"You say I'm selfish, but do you always let people walk all over you like this?"

Alfred's stare falters and he looks away. Arthur thinks he looks like a scared little kid without his glasses. His eyes are so big, he notices. Big, blue eyes. His looks certainly fit his personality.

"The way I see it, there's no getting through to them." Alfred says.

"So you just let them?"

"What else am I gonna do?"

Arthur narrows his eyes past the pain in his head. "I don't know, fight back?"

Alfred huffs. "Look where that got me."

"Injured, buried in snow, and senselessly arguing with me?"

"Yep."

"Hm."

Arthur's eyes trace away from him, and instead they migrate to the sky. He breathes shakily from the cold, thankful for the fire that warms him from one side. The intense smell of gasoline worries him, but he can't be bothered to care. Besides, from the looks of the charred, demolished bus and the soppy puddles carrying its tires, if there was an explosion, it already happened. Yeah. Hopefully.

They should really be sleeping. He tries to shut his eyes, but that just leaves him with nothing but his pain.

In frustration, his left hand balls into a fist. It feels like he's walking barefoot on a sea of broken glass. He toes around where he knows the pain is, but it's such a long way. Half of him wants to just give up. The sharp pain in his side has dulled, and he thinks it's got something to do with the cold air, but he can't be sure. Would it still the bleeding? He doubts it, because when he landed, he had been pouring out red into the snow like nobody's business. Maybe his body is simply unconcerned with it and instead uses its focus on the bump he sports underneath his hair.

"I thought you were just gonna go without me."

Arthur blinks, and his attention whips from blurry expanse to sharp outline. "Huh?" he says articulately.

"When you got up in the bus. I thought you were just gonna run up like the rest, but I knew you'd make it 'cause we were so close. So I ran ahead of you, because I didn't want you to... well, to beat me, I guess, after all that. So I just went. And now I know I wouldn't have made it... I just do. So thanks for pulling me back. And sorry. Again." Alfred rambles.

Arthur's frown kicks down on one side.

"No, I was going to get you."

"It didn't look like it." he mutters, with a pout.

And just then, Arthur seems to twitch and snap simultaneously. It flurries his dizziness, but he soldiers on anyhow.

"Make up your mind!" he bursts out. If he had the energy, he's certain that he'd be livid. Fortunately, all he can manage is a red face and a myriad of hand gestures facing nothing but the sky.

Alfred jumps and his eyes widen slightly.

"I understand if you're upset with me," Arthur starts again. "I get it, really, I do, if I was you I would be too. But if you keep apologizing like this, I won't know what to think. Do you hate me or not? Because it would do me very well to have some closure!"

Alfred lies there, astonished and with his mouth condensed into a tiny, thin line. Through the blurs, he can see the angry red on Arthur's cheeks, standing out even through the cold. In fact, it's all that he really bothers trying to see. He tries to find words, but he's nothing short of speechless.

He hears instead of sees Arthur take a deep, withdrawn breath. "I understand that I should not have led you on." he pauses. "I'm sorry."

Alfred takes a moment to gulp. "Is that what you were doing?"

"What?"

"The whole time. Was that it?"

Arthur pauses to take in what he had said, before looking down and pursing his lips. He can feel the cold tickling him with the very tips of its claws, lightly tracing his skin in tiny trails.

"Alfred, really..." Arthur says through his shudders. "It was less than a week."

Alfred glares directly into his blurry green eyes.

"Yeah, well, I liked you a whole lot longer than that."

Arthur rivals his glare and tries to ignore the satisfaction within him at those words.

"The feeling was mutual, alright?" he forces out. His hands grab handfuls of the jacket's fluff, just for something to hold on to. His voice is weak when he says it, too, and Alfred almost has to concentrate to listen. "I was leading you on, yes." he says, louder this time. "But it was only because I knew it would be... difficult." he trails off near the end, and once again becomes soft-spoken. "I really do fancy you. For a long time before, I did. And I still do. I just knew that I couldn't... well."

Alfred is hesitant to accept Arthur's words. After feeling the battlescars riddling his once great confidence, he very nearly dismisses them as bullshit. Yet, still, he has hope. It's an obnoxious hope that simply will not allow him to reject the words.

"Really?"

Arthur turns his head away from him, mindful not to do it too quickly. His eyes scan the snowflakes shrinking midair, but he can't focus on just one. It worries him. Still, he nods lightly and slowly, unable to look him in the eye. He understands that that can be misconstrued as a lying gesture, but he hopes that Alfred knows him well enough to not interpret it that way.

"So you only did it because you didn't want anyone to see?"

"_Yes_." Arthur says with finality. He feels Alfred squirm.

"Why didn't you just tell me?"

"Because it was my problem, not yours."

Alfred grimaces. "It ended up my problem."

"I'm _sorry_." he says, trying to put more force into the fact that he wants this conversation to be finished. "I didn't mean for it to turn out the way it did."

Then, they're quiet. Arthur's face is flushed, and one side is bleeding its heat into the jacket thanks to a tiny cut. He folds his arms protectively around himself, feeling positively vulnerable after that long confession. Some part of him, buried deep within him, is afraid of Alfred's stillness and lack of response.

Suddenly, he feels something tugging at his hair. His eyes startle open, and he finds it strange that he can't recall closing them. Had he fallen asleep? No, he doesn't think so...

"Aaaw..." he hears Alfred croon. He doesn't dare look his way. "Look at you, pourin' your little heart out." he says cutely, running a gentle hand through Arthur's messy hair. Arthur tightens his expression and tenses, like a dog readying its bite.

"You are _so_ cute." Alfred purrs, and for Arthur that's the final straw.

"Don't patronize me!" he growls, swatting Alfred's hand away from his aching head. Finally, he gains to audacity to administer a fiery gaze his way. When he sees him, Alfred has a confused grimace on his face.

After a quiet, terse moment, Alfred blinks away from his shock and frowns. "Arthur..."

Arthur huffs and feels nervous sweat gather on the back of his neck. The moisture worsens the cold, but still he thanks the heavens for the fire.

Slowly and gingerly, Alfred extends his arm again to wander through Arthur's unruly fringe. Arthur automatically twitches in irritation.

"Sorry. You're just- you're seriously adorable. I'm not trying to be mean. In fact, I'm kind of done being pissed off."

Arthur looks down at his hands and huffs angrily. He doesn't stop Alfred this time, though. In fact, he sort of wishes that he could turn on his side to face the boy completely, but he knows he can't do that without jarring his wound.

He bites his inner cheek, resisting the urge to spout self-deprecating blabber that mostly consists of just how much he is the embodiment of not-cute. Not ugly, per se... just, well, not cute. Whenever he peers into a mirror, he sees a pale-faced, frowning boy, one with very aggressive eyebrows. And to him, that's anything but cute. Alfred and his smiles, on the other hand...

"You're simply an endless supply of positivity, aren't you." he finds himself begrudging. He thinks it odd how everything that happened less than five minutes ago is simply erased from their heads.

The boy's only reply is a slight hum. Arthur looks at him again to find his baby blue eyes half-lidded, like he's got a sudden case of drowsiness. His smile is soft and barely there, a straight line with very slight bends at its ends.

"You know," Alfred says. "when we get out of this, I'm gonna need a shit-ton of money for some new glasses."

Arthur blinks, wondering why Alfred just told him this. He stares at him in puzzlement for a short while, before it dawns on him and he's stuck reminiscing on the other boy's intentions.

_When we get out of this._

The shorter boy allows himself a sardonic smile, and he looks down at his hands again.

"Yeah?"

"Mhm." Alfred says, nodding in a sagely manner.

"Well, I'd help you with that, but you see... I'm sure my family would have a few choice words for me. When I'm home."

"Nah, don't worry. I'll deliver pizzas for a while."

"How extravagant."

"You know me, livin' it large."

Arthur hums in quiet agreement, letting his eyes fall closed. A watery flake lands on the very tip of his nose. It distracts him from the hand weaving through his hair, and he wishes that the wintry water would go away. That, and his headache. His worrying, worrying headache.

He frets silently when that soothing hand stills.

The jacket is coiled when he hears and feels Alfred shift. The fluff is distorted with his weight, and once again Arthur hears the crunch of snow as he drags his weight with his elbows. Arthur doesn't bother opening his eyes. He expects Alfred to cuddle up to him again, and he's glad for it, too. It's much too cold to bicker. The crunching of snow is accentuated by the cracking of flames, and even though the sounds are so loud and high, they lull him into a fast, safe slumber. A lovely slumber, one he can be glad to delve into.

Sure enough, warm arms coil around him.

"Yeah. We're gonna find our way back to the road." Alfred says, dragging Arthur back to alertness again, although truthfully he doesn't mind much. "That or someone's gonna find us. And it'll be so cool. I bet we'll be on the news."

Arthur notices that Alfred is rambling, but he doesn't call him out on it.

"Wait. Man, I don't even watch the news. But I mean, holy crap, I'd be on TV!" Alfred twitches in apparent excitement. His head is pillowed onto Arthur's chest, cheek smooshed comically against a beige sweater. Arthur, in exasperation and fondness, brushes his palm and fingers against the back of Alfred's goosefleshed neck, before running it through his hair like Alfred had done to him. "I'll start watching the news. Yeah, it'll be my New Year's resolution! Watch the news! … Wait, that's lame."

Arthur begins to smile.

"I mean, who watches the news? I guess my dad does for the weather. I don't like it because it can get depressing. … Dude, if we're on the news, we'll be so depressing!"

Oh, my, now Arthur is having to hold in his chuckles. Alfred nuzzles into him absently, completely oblivious.

"I think I'll make a weird face on camera. Oh my god. Arthur, let's make weird faces on camera!"

Soon, Arthur's tummy is vibrating with hidden laughter, and he can't hide it from Alfred anymore. It makes his side sting, but damn it all, he doesn't care.

"... Arthur? What's so funny?"

Finally, Arthur's eyes pinch open and he snorts a bit, before turning his head and laughing into the jacket.

"Arthur, it's too early to go crazy! We've only been out here a day!" Alfred cries, and Arthur senses the jest in his voice. He turns his eyes back toward the wonderful boy atop his chest, and finds him with a playful little smile which he quickly hides. Arthur removes his hand from Alfred's hair and uses it to wipe at his eyes.

"Alfred, you..." he starts. Alfred hides his smile further and tilts his head to the side like a puzzled puppy.

"You are so precious." Arthur finishes.

Both of his hands wander back down to clutch at the boy's back. Alfred's face slowly reddens, and he hides it in the soft fluff of that beige sweater. This is the first time Arthur has said anything like that, ever. Something pokes the top of his head, and after a short confusion he realizes it's Arthur's nose, right before the other boy's lips land in the exact same place. He can't feel it as well as he'd like to through his hair, but he loves it anyhow. He loves it... he loves it so much, he... he loves _him_.

Well, damn. Today is just a train wreck of feelings, isn't it.

Alfred hiccups a bit in his head, before he sneaks a look up. Arthur is smiling brighter than he's ever seen him, now looking up at the sky.

"Hey..." Alfred says.

"Mm?" Arthur acknowledges, straining his neck to look his way again.

Alfred squirms upward, digging his good leg into the ground to pull his weight. He goes so far that he's right in Arthur's face, and he allows himself to smile through his flush.

Arthur blinks when he never receives his explanation, and is instead astonished as Alfred kisses him. His eyes flutter in bewilderment, because if anything he hadn't expected that. Not that he's opposed to it, mind you, but...

Alfred's eyes are shut and gentle, but Arthur's are wide and open. He keeps them that way, even as Alfred attempts to mold their lips together. They're both chapped with cold, but that's not the issue. Rather, the kiss is a slap in the face to Arthur who realizes just how huge of an emotional roller-coaster he caused.

"Sorry..." Arthur murmurs into his lips right as he begins to reciprocate, his eyes melting shut with captivating slowness, and his arms climbing upward to wind around Alfred's shoulders.

They're both slow and gentle, Alfred especially, as he feels just a bit guilty about attacking a very wounded Arthur with a sudden kiss. He doesn't do anything but kiss him, by the very first layer of the word's definition. He doesn't make any advances, he only moves his lips with Arthur's, slowly and with a small amount of hesitation to do even that. Wasn't their relationship fragile but a minute ago?

Soon, though, Arthur assures that he's fine with it. He's kissing back, but in a different way than Alfred. He's less tentative. Instead of slowly easing in, he kisses like it's just any kiss. This grates on Alfred's nerves the tiniest bit, simply because after his recent embarrassing epiphany, he'd like the kiss to be something special.

Alfred separates them a moment later, feeling slightly downtrodden. Although, he certainly can't blame it on Arthur, who still has a soft smile on his face. He tries to manage a smile back, but when Arthur's falters he knows he has failed and probably looks like an idiot.

Arthur gazes at him curiously for a moment, lips parting a single millimeter. Unconsciously, his eyebrows draw downward a fraction. He wishes he knew why Alfred sought to make a fake smile. In an effort to make whatever it is better, he weaves the boy's hair through his fingers, repeating the action and wishing he was closer. The space between them is growing too cold, and he just wishes Alfred hadn't put his weight on his elbows.

He sharpens the blades of his back to lean up again and erase that skin-stretching smile with another kiss. Alfred, of course, expects it to be just like any other. His eyes, with a slight apathy, slide closed as he lets Arthur take the lead. It is the same, for a short while. This is simply because neither of them have any real idea what to do. A little voice in Alfred's head keeps nagging him to sleep, but now that it's happening, he doesn't want the moment to pass. A part of him somewhere realizes that it's the only moment he's going to get.

That part of him is wrong, though. Although Arthur insists that he is an endless ray of sunshine, that is not completely the case. Rather, he's a glowing ball of light that's filled with a rainy day.

He grudgingly settles, relieved that everything is alright for the time being, but still bothered by something he can't easily put a finger on.

Arthur doesn't like that he can still physically feel Alfred's false smile. His eyes are shut and of course he can't see anything, can't discern much through his biting headache really, but he can feel it, like a prickle in the air that's foreign to the cold. The feeling is like an icy tendril, snaking across his skin, and he doesn't like it, not one bit.

However, much to everyone's chagrin, Arthur is not the type of person to ask another what's wrong. So he separates them, in a hurry for Alfred's eyes to open again.

They do, after seconds that seem like minutes, and they're wider than usual, in a way that's not meant to be noticeable. Arthur gives him his best meaningful stare, as he's too stuck in his stigma to console whatever his problem is. All he can do is kiss him. Which, evidently, isn't doing much.

"We should get to sleep." Alfred murmurs. Arthur's eyes flinch a bit when he feels warm breath race past his skin.

"Alright." he says softly. He expects Alfred to climb off him, but instead the boy just bumps his head back onto Arthur's chest.

That's that, he reasons. They're quiet now, and it's time to sleep. Arthur's eyes drift shut and he turns his head in just the right way that he won't agitate his sore spot. He knows he'll need to rely on Afred's even breathing before he can even hope for his own slumber. But that's fine, because it's nice...

"Hey," Alfred says. He's got an odd lilt in his voice. "I'm gonna be a blanket."

"... What?"

"I'm not gonna move. I'm gonna keep you warm. So stop breathing all fast like that, you're kind of scaring me."

Arthur replies with a grunt, thinking that Alfred is scaring him with his fake smiles, and when the other boy shifts he feels their legs bump. Alfred sniffs, most likely irritated from the chill. He tries to calm his breathing. He focuses on the fact that it has stopped snowing, and that everything is fine.

Yet, he wonders, has he been so antsy the entire time? Furthermore, _why _is he so antsy?

It seems like hours that he just lies there. After a succinct twenty minutes which felt like one of those hours, he feels like he can safely assume Alfred to be asleep. The feeling of his form so close and soft is heart-warming, and Arthur bites his lip in an effort to keep his eyes closed.

His mind flashes to the fact that they're completely dependent on the fire, and that if it dies in the night they may not see morning.

But he quickly banishes it and relaxes. No more of that rushed breathing, he remembers. No, no more of that. You only hear about hypothermia in the stories, and to him right then, the condition is like a boogeyman ready to gargle out from under his bed. No, he won't get it. It's not real.

Such an incredible method of avoidance he has.

What seems like an hour passes. He recalls the stale times he spent at forced sleepovers, waiting for everyone else to wake up. The contests of staying up late and the time spent in his own mind are blurs that have nothing to do with this, but it's stuck in his mind anyhow, yanking him away from sweet, sweet slumber.

A sudden sigh escapes the boy atop him, and Arthur curses to himself when his eyes automatically snap open. Alfred moves, and the silly little tuft of hair atop his head is crushed by his forehead, rammed straight into Arthur, who frowns. There is no way that that is comfortable.

"Are you awake?" Alfred asks, and Arthur jumps.

"... Yes." he replies reluctantly.

"I can't sleep."

Arthur's arms twitch, useless at his sides. "Neither can I."

Alfred makes a tired noise, like a little hum that's a grunt at the same time. He stretches his arms, before landing his cold-tipped hand atop Arthur. His eyes narrow as his thoughts yammer, refusing to just leave him alone. He wonders if the same thing is happening to Arthur.

"Can I try something?" he mumbles through his frustrated haze, chanting in his mind a nervous mantra of _to hell with it_.

Arthur blinks and looks down at Alfred. The boy's face is beet red again, and already Arthur can feel himself growing a smile. Slowly, he nods, having absolutely no idea what to expect.

Alfred returns the smile, although his is a touch more bashful. He hides his face and backtracks, wishing he had his glasses so he could see what he's even doing, so that he could see Arthur's smile in all its glory.

His breath is involuntarily shaky, and he feels the urge to ball his hands into fists. He doesn't, though. No, instead, he wets his chapped lips, ignoring the tremors in his conscience. It's a habit of his that his hand twitches to fix his glasses, but through all his sudden shakiness he reminds himself that they're not even there.

Arthur had done this to him, sort of, so it's okay is he does the same, right? And even though there is a numbing fear within him, fear that they won't even make it out alive, he stays chipper. He stays as he always is. So, of course he would put it into the back of his mind that he's doing this partly because it may be the last thing he ever does, and he finds that he doesn't like that morbid train of thought in the slightest.

Alfred splays his hands out and cups Arthur's cheeks, seeing him in blurs when the other boy blinks up at him. He can discern the color of his skin, but he can't find his freckles. He can catch sight of the jade rings of his eyes, but he can't see the feelings in them. It drives him nuts, and as a coping mechanism he chooses to focus on that frustration and ignore the situation at hand.

His head jolts downward to join their lips again, and Arthur grunts a bit. Great start.

To be completely honest, Arthur is a bit tired, both figuratively and literally. He feels like the once electric kiss is now dull and repetitive, and a little whine in his head cries about wanting to just cuddle. That's not to say he's tired of kissing the boy. Rather, he thinks that there is definitely a better time and a better place. Although, he is curious about what Alfred plans to 'try'.

It becomes apparent when, after a few seconds of tedious kissing, he feels something that's not necessarily foreign, but is instead unexpected. His entire body tenses, and he's quite certain that he feels Alfred's do the same thing, for it doesn't sound like a very relaxing gesture to start licking another person's lips.

One of the hands cupping his face gingerly slides upward to brush against his hair, and while Arthur supposes that it's meant to reassure him (as if he needs it in the first place), it doesn't feel very pleasant in that spot. Arthur is hesitant to do it, but in the end he relents. He resigns himself to the fact that Alfred will never stop fumbling in what he does, and with a repressed shiver as Alfred tried in near vain to get what he wants, Arthur parts his own lips.

To Alfred, it's weird at first. It feels awkward on his lips, but it feels kind of- alright, it feels pretty nice. Not only that, but his mind, in reaction to the feeling, flies back to when they had kissed so feverishly atop Arthur's bed. It's a sound reminder that things have been put back to where they should be.

To Arthur, it makes him a little nervous, but sadly it's not the first time he's done something like this. It just surprises him that Alfred, of all people, is making such an advance. He thinks to himself, if Alfred had to ask, then that must mean it's his first time with anything like this; perhaps Arthur was his first kiss.

These absent thoughts float around listlessly, and he's only half-focusing on the kiss itself. Alfred is lacking in experience, that much is obvious... but, still. Arthur can only be dragged along.

That is, until Alfred pulls away for a single breath, and in that breath he whispers his name. Normally this would be nothing; it would just be what it is, a messy kiss when they're both cold and they can't sleep. On any other day, in any other universe, under any other circumstance, that would be the case, but no. Not this time. There's something in his voice when he says it that makes Arthur's heart suddenly palpitate, makes the butterflies in his stomach erupt into a fluttering firework, bursting from a single point and burning him with an itchy, ticklish feeling.

It's that feeling that makes him reach for the boy again, makes him reach for him, and makes him hold him, makes him wonder why he does the things he does, why he sometimes doesn't _care_ when he damn well should. Because Alfred cares, obviously, it shines through in his voice when he breathes Arthur's name, it's a care that comes in the form of a hidden whine, a part of a breath. It's there in the hands framing his face, and it's there when he kisses messily, when he's pulled in by Arthur again to do the same thing over- except it matters now.

Just because Alfred said his name in a hush. A hush filled with feeling.

Arthur brings Alfred in so tightly that his arms strain against each other, overlapping each other behind the boy's neck, connecting their mouths again and resuming what they were doing just moments before, eliciting pleasure in tiny bursts that come with just the right movement, just the right brush.

Maybe it was just too much for him, the concept of someone not simply yearning for the idea of him.

Either way, it seems that the tables have turned tenfold. Arthur now returns his kiss with enthusiasm, blind with its meaning and its deep feeling. Alfred is delighted, but he's still slow on the uptake. He laps at Arthur's lips, his mouth, his tongue, even when the other boy tries to take control and tangle them together, he still fumbles and clearly displays that he has no idea how to go about it.

It feels so good, though. He doesn't pull away out of embarrassment simply because it's a heart-fluttering feeling to be so, well, intimate with another person. Not only that, but physically it's oddly nice. He notices how Arthur clings to him like he's the last person on Earth, but he doesn't make any remarks about it.

They're noisy with their mouths, and occasionally the echo of crunching snow can be heard, but otherwise, there's not a word. Not a single word, for a while. Alfred wonders if he can get adventurous with his hands, but he doesn't want to push anything. One of Arthur's combs up into his hair, while his other travels down to his back. Alfred hates that he's confined to staying propped up on his arms.

Once again, he pulls away for breath. It's true that he can breathe through his nose, but the supply only lasts so long when his heart rate quickens.

Arthur is still while he collects his own breath, and he's quiet but for his nervous pants for air. He gives Alfred what he thinks is a vulnerable look, before remembering the boy probably can't even see it.

So he does something completely unlike himself. For once, he leaves behind his rotten shell of a personality, and he lets himself be vulnerable. Of course, he doesn't put himself on the line, no, heavens no. He simply shows a touch more affection than he normally would, and he does it with words.

"Don't worry about me." he says, clarifying later. "Just get down here."

Alfred, appearing just a little dizzy, slowly shakes his head. "I don't think that's a good idea."

"I'll be fine." Arthur chides. "More importantly, I really hate this space between us, so please..." he trails off, trying to hide the urgency in his voice.

Alfred's eyebrows are shot up in obvious trepidation, but Arthur can tell that the boy wants to follow his orders just as much. So he does. Slowly, he lies down so that all of his weight is on Arthur, and when he sees that everything is fine, he smiles a little wanly.

Arthur just pulls him into another kiss, lacking in any finesse whatsoever this time. He feels him now, all over, and when their tongues meet again he makes a tiny little sound. Alfred's hands find his hips, and they're gentle as they grab him, they're sweet and careful as the boy avoids his cut, as he breathes in a fast tempo. Arthur makes the sound again, and this time it's more obvious. It's like he's simply overflowing in strange, giddy jitters, and it's something that's never really happened before.

He wonders what the feeling is.

Still, it's dismissed when the stroke of the other boy's tongue is just right, and he finds himself lifting the leg on his good side to wind around Alfred's.

Alfred's breath hitches, and Arthur swears he can feel the heat emanating from his flush. At least he can't really feel the cold anymore.

Alfred gulps when, in his head, he remarks on how close they are... _down there_. Arthur's thigh is directly between Alfred's legs, and he could very easily move in just the right direction, but he won't. He knows that nothing can happen, at least, nothing for him, because he's still far too cold. Absently, he keeps kissing, listening to his thoughts rather than the little mewls that keep escaping from Arthur. At least, this is the case, until one of them turns into a hiss and Arthur jolts away from the kiss, clenching his eyes shut and squaring his jaw.

Alfred blinks, his mouth still open to nothing but air.

"What's wrong?" he asks dumbly. Arthur only lets out an agitated breath. Gingerly, he prods at the back of his head, wincing every time his hand makes even the slightest contact with his scalp.

"I-it's nothing..." Arthur tries, but it comes out so strained that it transforms into a blatant lie.

Alfred frowns, and he moves his hands up from Arthur's hips to his face. He brushes soft, unruly hair away from his forehead, and worries at his kiss-reddened lower lip, biting it as he struggles to get a good look at Arthur. Of course, the only things that really stand out are his eyes. Arthur grimaces at the odd invasion of his space.

"You hit your head?" he asks, a bit confused because if he had done so just moments ago, the landing should have been soft anyhow. So why the sudden hiss?

"Yes."

"Sorry." Alfred says, frown still in place.

"Oh, no, it wasn't you..." Arthur says, paling. The pain fades slowly, and his eyes slide back up to Alfred again. "You've been nothing but wonderful." he says with a glassy smile that makes him question why he feels like being a compliment factory today.

Alfred laughs a cute laugh and pokes Arthur's nose with his own. Then, he just stares. And stares, and stares, clueless to the fact that Arthur has to keep his neck strained to keep his head safe. He tries to think of something, anything, that might get him out of this position.

"Are you cold?" he says, growing a smile because this idea is a saving grace that comes with a lovely outcome.

Alfred looks sheepish, then he nods. Arthur smiles. He uses the leg he has hooked around the other boy to keep them together, and he pushes himself upwards with light complaints from his side. Still, he manages, and soon Alfred is on his back with a happy Arthur on top. His knees are bent on either side of the boy's body, so that he can (hopefully) rest comfortably until they inevitably fall asleep. Hopefully, he thinks again. Hopefully, they'll be snoring soon.

Alfred's arms are wrapped tightly around him, holding him close with an almost desperate intention. Yet they're gentle enough not to hurt him, and he appreciates it. Arthur sighs, content to be lying where he is, but still a little cold. In the end, it's worth it. Especially when he buries his face into Alfred's neck, when his eyes squeeze shut, and when he feels his heart about ready to explode out of pure feeling. He doesn't know that Alfred is feeling something very similar.

They don't say anything, they just lie there. Arthur's breath is just a tad bit limited in the crevice between jacket and skin, but he doesn't mind. He likes it, it lets him know that he's close, so close...

Within minutes, Alfred is asleep, and Arthur is left with nothing but his own thoughts, winding down a road he can't possibly predict. It takes him much longer to fall asleep, and when he does, it's with a genius idea strapped to his mind.

* * *

When Alfred awakens the next morning, the first thing he does is whimper and gasp. His eyes have yet to even open, and the only thing he can manage to do is tense his body and roll onto his side. He sucks his breath in abruptly, and it makes a pathetic sound that can only be heard by him.

The pain he feels is excruciating.

There's no way he can walk.

Alfred realizes that it's much like what happens when one does a strenuous activity the previous day, only to wake with a stubborn ache, an ache that leaves that day in the dumpster. Except this is much, much worse. This is no sewing muscle or growing pain, and it's certainly not the trigger of anything good.

He moves only an inch, and it makes him yelp. Of course, he should have known. Yesterday was too easy for its effects to stay around.

Which brings him to another point. His eyes shrivel open and he's instantly bombarded with a terrifying, screeching static of white and gray, of wind, ferocious and breaking anything in its path, making an icy dust that floats from the ground and joins the dancing snowflakes mid-flight. His breathing quickens, and his hands, positively buried in bitter cold, feel the fuzz of his jacket, buried as well.

Alfred panics and he sits up as quickly as he can, mindful not to move his damaged leg even an inch.

Then there's the terrifying realization that he _can _sit up, which means that Arthur is missing. His hands hop around the powdery snow and plunge inside, where he grips his jacket with such force that part of it emerges from the snow.

His lungs burn with cold, and his nose tingles a sour tingle. Parts of his hair are literally frozen together.

Now, he feels like everything is a lost cause. He would call for Arthur if he could, but he can't. He tries, and all that comes out is a sleepy, ill, and weak rasp, dry and vapid in comparison to the wicked howl of the wind.

Alfred is in the process of fearing for his life. His mind is racing through a million things at a time, searching through files upon files about survival, about injuries, about things he doesn't know anything about- and about where the fuck is Arthur? Where in the fucking, fucking, _fuck _is Arthur?

Did he abandon him in the night?

Alfred hacks out a sob. No, no, he wouldn't do that, he wouldn't. There's no way. No...

The wind screams. His adrenaline reaches a peak and he pulls his jacket from beneath his weight, bundling it around his endangered body with alarming haste. He can't find the words to express how terrified he is. His eyes are wide, frozen, almost manic.

Why did this have to happen?

* * *

**Ehehe... just one more chapter, I promise! … I'm sorry!**


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